The Winds of God
by pat weakley
Summary: Book Two-The Daily Sentinel has been bombed. Britt's investigation of who did it is complicated by the fact that he must keep his activities as the Green Hornet secret from his two grown children who are home for the holidays.
1. Homecoming

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**The Winds of God**   
  


Chapter One   
  
  
  


Homecoming   
  
  
  


I   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The big jet was on its last leg, heading into the setting sun, heading home from the East Coast. It had been a long journey for many of its passengers who had traveled across the Atlantic from the desert country of Kahara in the Middle East. On its final approach the plane turned, tilting its wing toward the city that looked out onto the great lake, molten lava in the setting sun, giving its passengers a spectacular look as the sun set the city's tall buildings aflame in copper and gold.   
  
  
  
  
  


Deep within the city a box was prepared. Dynamite, an old Big Ben alarm clock, and a detonator were strapped together making a primitive bomb. Primitive, yes, but its effect would be devastating to its target nevertheless. Paper of white and gold, decorated with angels was wrapped around the box and then covered in a layer of brown kraft paper. Chances were the package's recipient would never see the angels. At least not those on the wrapping paper.   
  


  
  


John Reid looked eagerly out the airplane's window at the city below them and gently squeezed the hand of the dark-haired woman sitting beside him. "Not much longer, Fatima. Not much longer at all. You'll love meeting the folks. They're great people. I know you'll love them as much as I do." 

The woman smiled, her amber eyes bright with joy. "You've told me so much about them that I feel like I know them already. I just hope they like me. It's going to be quite a shock for them to find out that their only son is coming back from Kahara with a fiancee." 

John laughed. "They'll be overjoyed that I finally decided to settle down."   
  


  
  


Casey looked up impatiently at the messenger standing in front of her. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Reid is busy. You can't bring that package in to him right now." 

"I was told I had to deliver it to him in person," the messenger insisted. 

"As you have told me repeatedly, but as I have said before, Mr. Reid cannot be disturbed. If you can't leave it with me, then you will have to return it to the sender," she said firmly. 

"Okay, lady, have it your way. I'll leave it here. It's not like the guy will ever know if I gave it to Mr. Reid or not." 

"Fine."she said. "You can leave it on that chair near the door. I'll give it to Mr. Reid when he is free."   
  


The messenger placed the package on the chair and returned to stand in front of Casey with his hand held expectantly out. He quickly withdrew it when she glared angrily up at him.   
  
  
  
  
  


Waiting for the cabdriver and John to finish loading the taxi, Fatima grasped the thick, white fur coat around her as light snowflakes swirled around her. "Do you think it's going to get heavier?" she asked her fiancee as he opened the door for her.   
  


John studied the sky for a moment. "Nah, I think it'll be stopping soon, but don't worry. I think we'll have a white Christmas this year." He laughed. "Of course in this state, we always have a white Christmas."   
  


"How wonderful," Fatima said unenthusiastically. She much preferred Kahara's dry desert heat to this cold white stuff.   
  


John laughed again. "How about a Christmas wedding?" he asked.   
  


"That sounds wonderful," she answered. "As long as we can honeymoon somewhere warm, like the Caribbean."   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Filled with shoppers hurrying after Christmas bargains and office workers heading home for the night, the traffic on the way to the Daily Sentinel was heavier that ususal. It gave John Reid plenty of time to show his lovely bride-to-be all the sights of the city. To the young lovers the grey industrial city seemed to be dressed in all its holiday finery just for them. The lights of the stores and office buildings were aglitter with an especial brightness. Years-old Christmas decorations hanging over every intersection and from every street light sparkled as if brand new. Even the snow that formed thick mounds between the sidewalks and the street still gleamed clean and pure.   
  


"There," John pointed out. "That tall building with the sign on the roof, see, there with the red circle and the letters DSTV. That's the Daily Sentinel. That's where we're going."   
  


Fatima leaned over to look at the building. "Where's your father's office?"   
  


"You can see it there on the corner of the eighth floor. See there, with the balcony. Oh my God!" he suddenly exclaimed as the window where he was pointing exploded into billowing flames.   
  


"Driver, stop the car," he ordered, opening the cab's door before the driver could protest.   
  


"John," Fatima said, starting to follow him out of the rear seat. "I'm going with you."   
  


"No, stay," he answered, motioning her back. "Stay with the taxi. Get the driver to radio for help."   
  


John ran across the traffic-clogged street, several times barely avoiding being run over as cars swerved to avoid him. Behind him he could hear the screeching of tires and cars banging into each other as their drivers gaped up to look at the flames boiling out of the upper floors of the Daily Sentinel. His eyes too were on the Daily Sentinel, knowing that the office where the flames raged was his father's. Ahead of him, people clotted on the sidewalk under the Sentinel building. Some were staring up aghast at the disaster. Others, caught in the falling glass from the floors above, were crying out for help. Above it all, the earsplitting claxons of the Sentinel's fire alarms screamed, sending its large staff out onto the crowded sidewalk.   
  


The flood of people leaving the building nearly forced John back out as he pushed and shoved his way inside. Inside against a wall near the doors, John spotted a tall, tired looking man in dark rimmed glasses nursing a large mug of steaming coffee. "Clark!" John shouted above the babble of excited voices, "I need your help. We've got to get people organized and away from the building. We need a way cleared for the Fire Department."   
  


"Fire Department? What happened?" Clark asked.   
  


"There's been an explosion on the eighth floor, near the City Room. We're going to have to get everybody out and away from the building in case there's another explosion."   
  


"An explosion! Oh my God! We didn't feel a thing on the first floor," Clark said. "Did you say the City Room?" he asked.   
  


"Yeah, or near there," John answered.   
  


"Like your father's office?" Clark asked, already guessing what John's answer would be.   
  


John nodded, not trusting his voice not to expose the fear he felt, afraid that if he said the horrible thought, it might come true.   
  


"I'll grab some people and get things organized down here while you check the upper floors," the reporter volunteered. He watched the people streaming past them. "It's going to be hard getting up those stairs with everybody coming down them."   
  


"I know, but I have to try."   
  


"Sure, I know you do," Clark said as he settled his mug in a planter near him. He muttered under his breath, "What'll we do without Mr. Reid . . . "   
  


John grabbed his arm. "Don't even think it," he hissed. "Even if something has happened to him, and I'm not going to say it has, the Sentinel will go on. You have my word on it. As a Reid."   
  


"I hear you, John Reid. And you can bet you'll have everybody here behind you all the way. Go up there and do what you need to. I'll take care of things here."   
  
  
  
  
  


John rapidly climbed the crowded stairway, taking several steps at a time. Wrapped in the noisy confusion of the insistent alarms and the clatter of feet on steel, people's faces blurred past him. Several people seemed unconcerned, not knowing what had happened above them. John's urgent upward rush barely merited a pause in their conversations. Thinking that it was a fire drill, many had taken the time to grab coats, purses and an extra cup of coffee to fortify themselves for the expected wait for the all clear signal.   
  


So far he had not seen anyone he recognized from the City Room, and as he neared the eighth floor the crowd thinned out alarmingly. The few people who passed him had felt the building shudder and knew that there was something terribly wrong. His grim demands for news of the eighth floor were met with fearful shakes of the head.   
  


John finally reached the eighth floor, but did not rush through the door even though he desperately wanted to do. He cautiously rested his hands against the door. It was still cool to the touch. At least no fire raged out of control behind it. There existed a chance that there were survivors, perhaps even Britt and Lenore Reid.   
  


The blast of cold air that hit him as soon as he opened the door was a shock since he still half-expected to find the floor engulfed in flames. The sprinkler system had done its job well, leaving the hallway awash in water and soggy ceiling tiles. All the lights on the floor were out except for the blindingly bright emergency lights set up high on the walls. The damage was slight where he had entered, but it became worse as he worked his way toward the lobby. Although the emergency lights in the lobby had been destroyed there was enough light filtering in from the hallway to show glass everywhere on the floor and marks on the walls where the flames had roared through before being doused by the sprinklers.   
  


Walking through the lobby, John dodged snapping electrical wires that hung from the ceiling. The heavy metal and glass globe that usually was the lobby's centerpiece had been knocked off its pedestal. John's stomach lurched sickeningly when he looked down to see the empty eyes of a man who had been caught under it. He forced himself to look away, knowing that there was nothing he could do.   
  


Above the keening of the winds blowing through shattered windows, John heard the moans and screams of people in pain. He headed toward the City Room, then paused near the blasted door that led into the black pit of what remained of the Publisher's suite. Time wasted searching for his parents could mean the difference between life and death for someone in the City Room. Yet, his father or mother could be breathing their last alone in the darkness.   
  


"Hey, John, how can we help?" asked a tall, lanky man with thinning hair the color and texture of straw. Coming behind him was a small, dark-haired man who moved over the littered floor with surprising grace.   
  


"Ed Lowrey. Boy, am I glad to see you," John said in relief. "Have the paramedics arrived yet?"   
  


"Not yet. The traffic's a mess out there. We're going have to make do until the pros get here. Clark's downstairs getting able bodies like me, and Lee, here, to raid all the first aid boxes so we can try to patch up anybody who might be hurt," Lowrey answered, showing the small white boxes that he and the younger man were holding.   
  


"Could be dangerous staying in the building," John warned. "There might be more explosions."   
  


"You're here," Lowrey pointed out.   
  


"My parents . . . " John swallowed against the hard lump in his throat, "I have to see what happened to them."   
  


"I understand. We're all family here," A lopsided grin flashed momentarily on the reporter's face. "Clark had a hard time keeping down the number of volunteers. Everybody wanted to help."   
  


"I'm glad for any help we can get." John frowned in concentration as he searched his memory. "Lee . . . , you're the one my mother's written to me about. She said that your father was an old friend of theirs. You're staying at the house with them, aren't you?"   
  


"I was. I'm at the townhouse now . They're letting me use it until I can afford a place of my own." His dark eyes slid toward the Publisher's suite. "I owe them a lot," he said very quietly.   
  


"We better get going and see what we can do in the City Room," Lowrey said. "Why don't you go check on your folks. The paramedics will be here any time now. We'll do fine by ourselves," he said encouragingly.   
  


John nodded. "Thanks, Ed."   
  


"Hey, don't worry," Lowrey added, "They might not even be in there."   
  


"Sure, maybe," John said doubtfully, eyeing what used to be his father's office.   
  


Lowrey pulled on Lee's arm, "C'mon kid, I'm going to need your help."   
  


Lee whispered to the reporter who towered over him, "What if they're dead? Shouldn't we be with him?"   
  


Lowrey shook his head. "No, if they're dead, I think it'd be better for him to be alone. At least for a little while."   
  


Although he knew he was not supposed to hear the whispered conversation, John had heard every word. Perhaps Lowrey was right. Perhaps it was better to discover the truth alone, but that wouldn't make it any easier. Not any easier at all.   
  


As he entered the anteroom of the Publisher's suite, John's feet crunched on more broken glass, and shattered paneling. Splintered furniture was everywhere, most of it unrecognizable. Mixed in with the smell of damp burned wood and upholstery was the distinctive smell of cordite. This was no accident.   
  


The door into Britt Reid's inner office hung crazily by a single remaining hinge. John pushed slightly and it fell with a loud crash into the office. The damage was not as severe as in the anteroom, but it was still very bad. A heavy conference table had been picked up by the blast and slammed against the far wall. The chairs that had surrounded it were scattered everywhere, most of them in pieces. Here too, ceiling tiles, wall paneling and glass were everywhere. John grimaced ruefully as he moved the thin beam of his flashlight along the frame of the glass wall that separated his father's office from the City Room. Nothing remained of it except for a saw tooth edge of broken glass and a few tattered shreds of drapery. Britt had always been proud of being able to see everything going on in the City Room through that wall. Now it was completely destroyed, injuring who knows how many people in the process.   
  


Just past the range of his flashlight, John could see people moving ghostlike in the City Room. An occasional glimpse of light told him that Lowrey and his friend were busy giving whatever aid they could. The job seemed near impossible. He silently prayed that help would come soon. He moved carefully, taking care of where he stepped, always passing his flashlight around him. The light slid across a framed picture, an old painting of a grandfather he had never met. The frame was badly broken, but the canvas was still in one piece. Repair would be possible.   
  


A low moan coming under the large desk that had been thrown onto its side against a wall caught John's attention. Pocketing his flashlight, he rapidly pulled debris off the heavy desk and heaved it away from the wall.   
  


"Dad!" John said, kneeling next to his father, fearfully turning him onto his back. He was shocked to see that Britt Reid's face was half covered with blood from a bad gash in his scalp. Groaning with pain, Britt tried to sit up. "Dad? Are you okay?" John asked worriedly as he helped his father up.   
  


"John? Is that you?" Britt croaked out as he tried to reach for his son.   
  


"Yeah, Dad, it's me. Take it easy," John said, trying to stop Britt from trying to get to his feet. "How do you feel?" It frightened him to see his father blindly grope around in confusion.   
  


Britt shook his head and almost lost his balance. He raised his hand and felt the warm stickiness of the blood from his head wound. "I can't see you," he said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.   
  


John retrieved his flashlight and shined it into his father's face. "Can you see now? There's no electricity on this floor," he said as he tried to wipe the blood from his father's face.   
  


Britt nodded slightly and almost lost his balance again. He looked around at his shattered office. "What happened?"   
  


"I don't know. We saw what looked like an explosion in this office just as we pulled up in a taxi. Dad," he said, still worried by his father's continuing confusion, "Was Mom here?"   
  


"Casey?" Britt said, visibly fighting the fog in his head.   
  


John grasped him firmly, forcing Britt to look him in the eyes, terrified by the unfocused bewilderment in those eyes that usually saw so clearly. "Think Dad, where's Mom? Was she here?" he said trying to get through his father's mental haze.   
  


Suddenly pushing John away, Britt lurched onto unsteady feet and began tearing through the debris near the desk. John tried to stop him, but Britt roughly pulled free, almost losing his balance. "She's here," he said desperately, "She was standing right next to me."   
  


John joined him, pulling, and lifting away everything around them, searching for his mother.   
  


"Casey!" Britt shouted, noticing an arm buried under a fallen bookcase. Both men shoved the bookcase off and Britt knelt down beside his wife.   
  


"Don't move her," John warned. "We have paramedics on the way."   
  


Britt nodded his understanding. With a trembling hand, he gently pushed red-gold hair away from her face. She seemed so still, so very pale in the light from John's flashlight. He hesitantly placed a finger on her throat, fearing the worse. "She's still alive," he said, sighing with relief.   
  
  
  
  
  


II   
  
  
  


John tiredly wandered down the hospital corridor. He had sent Fatima off to wait at a hotel while he had accompanied his parents to the hospital in the ambulance. There, while Britt and Casey were being seen in the emergency room he had been cornered by the police for questioning. For what seemed like hours they had grilled him about the explosion. Now, at least for the moment, they had all the information they needed from him and had let him go. Unfortunately, in the meantime, his father had disappeared from the emergency room. _That's all that I need_, he thought with a grimace.   
  


"Dad," John said, spotting Britt talking to a thin, white-haired black woman in a small waiting room near the ICU. "I'm glad I finally found you."   
  


"John, this is Mrs. White," Britt said, introducing the woman. "Her grandson is working as an intern at the Sentinel. He was in the City Room when the blast went off," he explained. "He's in the ICU now. We're sharing our misery together."   
  


Long tracks of tears rolled down Mrs. White's face as she accepted John's offered hand. "The doctor says my boy might not make it and your father's been good enough to give me a shoulder to cry on." She placed a hand on Britt's arm. "Why don't you go ahead with your boy and see to your wife. You got your own grief, never mind sitting with an old woman like me. I'll do just fine, you wait and see. Those fancy doctors are gonna see how tough us Whites really are."   
  


Britt slowly rose to his feet and grasped her hands in his own, noticing how thin and frail they looked compared to his own. "Mrs. White, if you need anything at all, let me know. I'll do everything I can to help you and your family." He pulled out a business card and wrote on its back. "This is my home number. I want you to call me if you need anything at all," he said.   
  


As he and John walked away, Britt said, "Tommy's a fine young man. He has two more brothers and sisters at home. Every penny he earns at the paper goes to help keep them in school. I was looking forward to taking him on full time after he finished college."   
  


"And now it looks like he might not make it," John guessed. Britt nodded in agreement.   
  


Noticing that they were passing by the hospital cafeteria, John said, "How about I treat you to a cup of coffee?"   
  


John waited a few moments as Britt took a long sip from his coffee cup. "Sorry it took me so long. I got held up by the cops for questioning about the blast, and now the press is trying to hunt me down too."   
  


"I know how that is," Britt said, "That's why I try to keep moving."   
  


"Yeah, well, some doctor is raising Hell because you took off from the emergency room before he could take a look at you," John said.   
  


Britt shrugged. "I don't see why he should be angry. I feel fine. All I needed was a little patching up and the paramedics took care of that."   
  


"Still, Dad . . . " John began.   
  


"John," Britt said firmly, "I said I feel fine."   
  


"Okay, if you say so," John said. "By the way, here's your cane. I thought you might be needing it."   
  


"Thanks a lot." Britt scowled ruefully as he accepted it. "Unfortunately I do." He absently caressed the cane's smooth wood. "At least it's better than falling flat on my face."   
  


"Sorry," John said quietly.   
  


"Forget it. I guess I don't like being reminded about my bad leg." He snorted. "Not that it doesn't remind me enough as it is."   
  


"It's been a long day. You should get some rest," John suggested. "You look like Hell."   
  


Britt shook his head. "No. Not until I find out how your mother's doing."   
  


"I know, but you've got to take it easy on yourself. You're not a young man, you know."   
  


Britt glared distastefully at John's remark. "There's still a hell of a lot of stuff I can still do, young man. I'm not anywhere needing a rocking chair yet."   
  


"Yeah, but . . . " John began.   
  


"Just tell me what you found out from the police," Britt said, sharply changing the subject. "I expect you did ask them a few questions since they were asking you so many."   
  


"They couldn't tell me much. It's too early for them to tell what happened, except they think some kind of bomb went off in the anteroom. They'll want to talk to you in the morning about it," John said.   
  


"Yeah, I'm sure they will," Britt agreed. "Hell of a homecoming, huh?"   
  


John nodded and shrugged. "This wasn't exactly the surprise I was planning on."   
  


Britt studied his coffee for a few long minutes, like a fortune teller trying to see the future in tea leaves. "Who was that girl I saw you with before we left in the ambulance?"   
  


"That was Fatima al Arabi. I sent her to stay at the Royal Arms until things settle down," John said.   
  


"Fatima? Isn't she the girl you were writing us about? The one you met at the American embassy in Kahara?"   
  


"Yeah. She was working there as an interpreter and guide."   
  


Britt looked up, studying his son's face. He smiled. "Is she the One?" he asked.   
  


Smiling lopsidedly, John nodded. "Yeah, your son and heir is finally going to settle down." He grew serious. "We were planning on a wedding near Christmas. But now . . . "   
  


"Do it anyway. Time is very precious. You never know when it's going to run out on you." For a moment his voice broke. "I hope you two will be as happy as your mother and I have been." He drained his coffee in a single gulp and crushed the cup.   
  


"Dad, Mom's going to be okay," John said, placing a hand on his father's arm as the older man fought to maintain his self control.   
  


"Mr. Reid, I have been looking all over for you," said a slender, swarthy complexioned young man in a white coat.   
  


Britt looked up. "What is it, Doctor? Has my wife come out of surgery?" he asked.   
  


"Your wife?" the doctor asked, momentarily confused. "Oh, her. No, I believe she is still in surgery. She is not my case, so I wouldn't know for sure."   
  


"Then what do you want?" Britt asked.   
  


"Oh, Dad," John hastily broke in, "this is Doctor Singh from the emergency room."   
  


"Mr. Reid, you really should have remained until you had been examined. It was very foolish of you to have disappeared like that. After all a man your age . . . "   
  


"Doctor, I'm dammed tired of being reminded of my age," Britt said sharply. "I feel perfectly fine. After the paramedics bandaged the cuts on my head and hands, I saw no reason to hang around the E.R. Not while there was a lot other people who needed help more than I did."   
  


"You are in no position to judge whether you need further medical treatment. That requires a level of medical expertise that you do not possess," Doctor Singh pointed out imperiously.   
  


Britt pushed out of his chair, towering over the much smaller man, "Doctor, at my age, which you have been so kind to point out as being quite advanced, I am old enough to know whether I need help or not. And to decide when I will seek it out. And I am sure as Hell going to decide who the Hell I am going to be taken care of, and it's not going to be . . . "   
  


A dry voice interrupted Britt just as he was starting to warm up. "Still making waves I see, Britt."   
  


"Dr. Grant," Britt said, greeting a large black man with steel wool grey hair. "I didn't expect to see you here."   
  


"I came here as soon as I heard about the explosion," Dr. Grant answered.   
  


Doctor Singh broke in, "Doctor Grant, I was telling Mr. Reid that he needs to be examined. He left the emergency room before I could see him," he explained.   
  


Doctor Grant shook his head, a large white smile lighting his dark face. "I'm afraid that you have just had the misfortune of meeting one of the most difficult patients in the world. Mr. Reid has a most unfortunate dislike of hospitals. He usually has to be dragged in kicking and screaming before he'll accept any care whatsoever. And when you're not looking, a bad tendency to disappear. Since I'm his personal physician, why don't you let me take a look at him and you can take care of somebody who's not as difficult."   
  


Slightly mollified, Doctor Singh answered stiffly, "Very well, I guess you are right. It is better if Mr. Reid is seen by someone familiar with his medical history."   
  


"Well, Britt," Doctor Grant said after Doctor Singh had stalked away muttering under his breath, "How are you feeling?"   
  


"I feel fine," Britt answered. "All I need is a little rest and I'll be as good as new."   
  


Doctor Grant nodded thoughtfully. "Leg bothering you?" he asked.   
  


Britt shrugged. "As always, especially after a long day like this one."   
  


"Headache?"   
  


"Yes. I have a headache, but it's nothing that a few aspirins can't take care of."   
  


"And some ringing in your ears, too, I'll bet," Doctor Grant said. "And dizziness."   
  


"Doctor . . . " Britt began, not wanting to answer any more questions, knowing where the doctor was heading.   
  


"Britt, I must insist you allow me to check you out. Your head injury may be a lot worse than just that cut on your scalp."   
  


Britt hesitated. He was getting too tired to argue, especially with someone who was right. "At least let me wait until I find out how Casey's doing. The last thing I heard was that she was going into surgery. I haven't heard a thing since."   
  


"I checked on her before I came here," Doctor Grant said. "She has a skull fracture, a slight concussion and a broken arm. She'll be out of the O.R. soon."   
  


Britt sighed in relief. "I'm glad to hear that, Doc."   
  


"Now will you let me check you out? Your putting it off any longer won't help her get better any faster. And it won't do her any good if something happens to you."   
  


Britt finally relented. "Okay Doc. I'll do it."   
  


A few hours later in his hospital room, Britt fingered the pills he had palmed when the nurse had not been looking. The pain killers were potent enough to put him out for half a day if he took the full dose. Considering the shape he was in, even a half dose would knock him for a loop. No, he decided, putting the pills onto the night stand beside his bed, he'd have to do without. He wanted to see how Casey was doing. Doctor Grant had only allowed him a brief peek before steering him into a complete physical examination. She had been sleeping then, but he had at least assured himself that she had come out of surgery in one piece. He couldn't sleep through the night though, not without checking on her one more time.   
  


He threw the thin blanket off and eased off the high hospital bed. For a moment he stood beside the bed, waiting for the room to stop spinning around him. He took a deep breath. The explosion had left him badly bruised and, despite the suit he had been wearing, there were glass cuts on his arms and hands.   
  


After he felt steady enough, he silently padded on the cold linoleum floor to the closet near the door, and opened it. He cursed under his breath. Some well-meaning, interfering idiot, had spirited away all of his clothes without even having the decency to leave him his briefs. He grasped the drafty opening in the back of the hospital gown and slipped out of his room. He checked up and down the hallway. The nurses' station was several doors down from his room, which was good since Casey's room was in the opposite direction. He would not have to try to sneak past them.   
  


Using the handrail for support, Britt quietly walked toward Casey's room, checking for numbers as he went. 304, 305, 306, then 307, there was her room. He eased the door open. The light was down very low, but he could see the green light on the heart monitor trace a reassuringly regular pattern. The IV bag hanging beside her bed was less reassuring, but Britt assumed that it was normal, and probably held glucose or some kind of antibiotics. A cast was on her right arm and bandages covered her left arm from the wrist up to past the edge of the blue-checked gown. A large bandage, too white against her pale skin and hair, was wound around the top of her head. Britt shook his head, this time they had both wound up hurt. He was used to getting battered, but with Casey it was a different matter.   
  


He gently grasped her left hand, taking extra care not to disturb the IV imbedded in her arm. She was as lovely as a sleeping angel. He stroked her hand, the diamonds in the ring he had given her for their twentieth anniversary caught the dim light, reflecting it back with hundreds of sparkling fires. She had always been there for him, no matter how bad it got, no matter how often she became involved in the danger herself. This time it was too close. Too damn close.   
  


Her eyes fluttered open, then widened, taking in the hospital room, the hospital gown Britt was wearing and the bandages on his head and arms. "Britt? What happened?" she whispered.   
  


"There was an explosion in your office at the paper. The police think it was a bomb." he answered quietly.   
  


"Oh, my God!" she gasped. "Was anyone else hurt?"   
  


Britt patted her hand, trying to put on his most comforting manner. "I'm sorry I woke you. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Close your eyes and get some rest. You need every bit you can get."   
  


She gave a small smile. "I must really look horrible if I need so much rest."   
  


"No, you look gorgeous," Britt said.   
  


"Just like a Man, always complimenting a girl when she's looking her worst," she said playfully.   
  


She grasped his hand firmly, her brows knitting with concern, "Britt, please tell me the truth. Was anyone else hurt?"   
  


He avoided her eyes. "Wait until morning when you're feeling better. We'll talk about it then."   
  


He moved to leave, but she wouldn't release her hold. She nodded toward the dim light filtering through a crack in the room's drapes. "It's morning now. Please tell me," she insisted.   
  


Britt sighed, shaking his head, "I don't know if you'll get any rest after you hear what I have to say."   
  


"Please," she demanded.   
  


"Okay," he said, easing a hip onto her bed, "About ten other people were hurt. There probably would've been more except a lot of people had taken off early."   
  


"How badly hurt were they?" she asked.   
  


"Three were hurt critically. Including Thomas White."   
  


"Thomas?" she said sadly. "Oh, his poor grandmother. What is she going to do?" The tears began welling in eyes.   
  


"I spoke to her already. She and her family will be taken care of, as well as the families of the other people who were hurt," he assured her.   
  


"Britt," she said softly, afraid of the answer to her next question. "Was anyone killed?"   
  


"Two people were killed. Terry Cogsworth and Les Carson," he said. "The blast shattered all the windows in our offices. That's how most of the people were hurt."   
  


He looked away from Casey, unsuccessfully trying to hide his grief. "Les was looking forward to retiring next week. He was planning on doing a lot of fishing and camping. It doesn't seem right, Casey. So many people were hurt because of somebody's grudge against me. Those people weren't just employees, they were my friends. Some of them had been at the Sentinel nearly as long as I have. Like Les."   
  


"Britt," she said very softly, stroking his arm, feeling the tension in his powerful muscles. "Don't blame yourself. Maybe it wasn't directed against you personally. Remember all those threats about that Arab conference that's coming up. And there's been other bombings too in the last few weeks. It might not have anything to do with you."   
  


"If it has anything to do with the conference then it is my fault. I've been pushing for one for years, and now that it's going to happen, the Sentinel's one of its biggest supporters. If someone is choosing violence to oppose it, then the Sentinel, and I, will be one of their main targets," he explained. His face grew hard, his pale eyes flashing like blue steel. "I swear, Casey, I'll find out who's behind this... This outrage. And I'll make sure that the price is paid in full."   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


III   
  


  
  


The bright shaft of the late afternoon sun filtering through a crack between the drapes of his hospital room woke Britt from a deep sleep. The combination of exhaustion and strong pain killers had ensured that his sleep would be without dreams. It was for the best, he thought. There was so much to do, so many problems to deal with that if he had not taken the pills that the exasperated nurse had forced on him, he would have never gotten any rest at all.   
  


He sighed and stretched, deciding that it was time to get up and get the day started. As he forced himself out of the bed, every muscle creaked and groaned. On top of the bruises from the night before, old wounds and old bones reminded him of past brushes with death. Doctor Grant had told him that his extraordinary luck been with him again. His office desk, filled as it was with electronic equipment and built of solid mahogany, would have crushed him if all of its weight had landed on him instead of merely trapping him against a wall. As it was Doctor Grant had been seriously worried about the bruising over Britt's ribs. He had ordered several X-rays just to make they had not broken again after barely healing from being fractured a few months ago. Grant also took great pains to remind him that there was a limit to the damage his body could take before something stopped functioning altogether.   
  


He looked outside and found that the light snow from last night had melted away in the late afternoon sun. That should have been a good sign, but there had been a heavy snowfall from before last night and that was melting as well. Cars passing by the hospital trailed rooster tails behind them in the wheel high snow melt. If there was a hard freeze tonight, the streets would become a skating rink. It would be impossible to get any speed at all, never mind trying any kind of rapid maneuvering.   
  


"Mr. Reid, I'm glad to see you're finally awake," said a nurse from behind him.   
  


Britt, suddenly conscious of the opening in the rear of his gown, grabbed it closed.   
  


The nurse smiled. "You don't have to worry. I've seen a lot of backsides since I've begun working here."   
  


"I'm sure you have," Britt answered, "But I'd rather not expose mine all over the hospital."   
  


"Did you sleep well?" she asked.   
  


"Like a baby," Britt replied.   
  


"That's good," she said. "There are, I'm afraid, some people who are waiting to see you."   
  


"I can imagine there are," Britt said. "But I'd like to get some coffee, a hot shower," he rubbed the day-old stubble on his cheek, "And a shave before I see anyone."   
  


The nurse nodded. "Your son left a suitcase with some clothes for you and a shaving kit. While you're washing up, I'll see about getting something for you to eat."   
  


"That sounds great," Britt said. Frowning thoughtfully, he asked, "How is my wife doing today?"   
  


"She woke up some time ago and is doing fine."   
  


"That's good news. By the way how soon will I be able to see Doctor Grant and get out of here?"   
  


"That'll probably be not be until later this evening. Doctor Grant finished his rounds quite a few hours ago. I know you're eager to leave, but it's better if you wait until we make sure you won't be having any problems. You know, you were very lucky to come out of that explosion alive."   
  


"I know, but I need to get out of here as soon as possible. I have a lot of things to take care of."   
  
  
  


Britt sipped from a coffee mug as he drew a razor through the thick lather on his face. The hot shower had been just what he had needed, and the breakfast tray had actually been fairly good, even for being hospital food. He drained the cup with a grimace. Unfortunately, the coffee was practically undrinkable, but at least it was hot and had enough caffeine to get him going.   
  


Britt's frown deepened as he recognized the dour face of Detective Morrisey in the mirror. "Couldn't wait until I got dressed, Detective?" Britt asked.   
  


Morrisey shook his head. "No, I couldn't. The Chief's been on my ass about this case ever since I got in this morning," Morrisey said sourly. "I've been all over town today and you're last on my list. I'd like to get this over with as soon as possible so I can call it a day."   
  


"I'm almost done," Britt said, washing the rest of the shaving cream off his face and wiping it dry with a towel. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting," he said, attempting a pleasantness he didn't feel. "Where's your partner, Detective Weston?"   
  


"He's talking to your wife." Morrisey's thin mouth tilted in an unaccustomed smile. "I hear you raised quite a ruckus by disappearing from your room and then reappearing in her bed."   
  


Britt shrugged. "I went to see how she was doing and we got to talking. She was upset about what happened and needed some comforting. She finally fell asleep in my arms and I hated to disturb her by leaving," Britt explained, not knowing why he felt he had to explain himself to the cynical detective.   
  


"Yeah, right," Morrisey said doubtfully. " I hear the Chief is threatening to put a guard in front of your and your wife's rooms for protection."   
  


Britt frowned thoughtfully. A guard in front of his room was the last thing he needed. "He's overreacting. There's no need for a guard to be posted."   
  


"Maybe so, but the Chief's hot to get the guy responsible. He's pulling out all the stops on this one."   
  


"I didn't know he cared," Britt said sarcastically. "We've never gotten along very well."   
  


"I think he's more worried about that big conference that's coming up. He doesn't want to look bad when the whole city's going to be in the limelight."   
  


Britt snorted. "It's going to take a lot more than a couple of guards to make him look good," he commented.   
  


"Probably," Morrisey agreed. Pulling out a spiral notebook and a chromed automatic pencil, he said, "Like I said, Mr. Reid, I'd like to get this over with, so why don't we get started."   
  


"Why is Weston questioning my wife while you're here with me?" Britt asked, as he slipped out of his robe and slid into the new pajamas that John had delivered to the hospital. He noticed Morrisey's eyebrows rise in surprise when the detective noticed the scars on his body. "Wouldn't it be better to ask us questions at the same time? One of us might remember something that the other forgot. It could save you some time." Britt's eyes narrowed. "Or is that what you want? To check if our stories jibe?"   
  


Morrisey looked at Britt tiredly. "You've been around long enough to know this is routine. We aren't doing anything different from what we usually do."   
  


Britt hitched a hip onto the edge of his bed, motioning the room's single chair to Morrisey, who refused it with a shake of his head. "You don't like me much, do you?" Britt asked pointedly.   
  


"Whether I like you or not, doesn't have a damn thing to do with the way I handle this case," Morrisey replied.   
  


"Perhaps. But it would make things go a lot better if we cleared the air first."   
  


Morrisey sighed wearily. "Mr. Reid, you made a fool of me a few months ago when Weston and I came to your house looking for that reporter of yours. I don't like being made a fool of," he said in a hard, even voice.   
  


"And you don't like my kind of people," Britt supplied.   
  


Morrisey studied the publisher a moment. Reid was a power to be reckoned with in the city. He wondered how much honesty the man was willing to bear. He'd take the chance. "Okay, I don't like your kind of people. You're a rich man, and that's fine. That's something I'd like to be myself. What I don't like is the attitude people with money get. They act like they expect the whole world to kiss their ass because they got a lot of dough. They figure they're something special and have the right to be treated different from everybody else. I don't buy that. I'll admit that you've doing right by your people in this case. I've heard that you insisted on them being taken care of before you were, and that you're even paying out of your own pocket to see that everyone is taken care of right. But that doesn't mean I think you're ready for sainthood.   
  


I don't care if you're a rich man or a bum from under the bridge, I'm going to treat you just like I treat everybody else in this case. If I find you lying to me or proof that you did something wrong, I'm not going to sweep it under the rug." Morrisey glared defiantly at Britt. "And if you have a problem with that, you can call the Chief and I'm sure he'll be happy to put somebody else on the case."   
  


Britt crossed his arms across his chest, weighing what Morrisey had said. A large grin of admiration slowly spread across his face. "No, Detective, I have no problem with that," he said. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way, what do you want to know?"   
  


Morrisey's eyes widened a moment. Britt's response was the last thing he had expected. His opinion of the publisher went up a few notches. He flipped open his notebook. "Okay," he began, "You were in your office most of the day?"   
  


Britt nodded. "Yes, I was."   
  


"Did you see anyone or anything suspicious in or near the Daily Sentinel building?"   
  


"No, I didn't."   
  


"How did the package arrive at your office?"   
  


"Package?" Britt asked. "Was the bomb in a package?"   
  


"That's what the Explosives man is saying."   
  


"Hmm, a package . . . " Britt said more to himself than to Morrisey. "I didn't know that, but that does sound like a logical way to get a bomb up to my office." He frowned thoughtfully. "To get there directly, it must've come by some kind of courier or messenger service," he said.   
  


"Messenger or courier," Morrisey repeated, jotting the words down in the notebook. "Do you remember seeing one?"   
  


Britt shook his head. "No, I don't. I have a window that looks directly into the anteroom, but that day I had the drapes closed. I do remember my wife mentioning that a package had been left by a messenger. I was planning on taking it home with me when we left for the night."   
  


"About when was that?"   
  


"About quarter to five." 

"How regular is your work schedule?"   
  


"Not very. I usually come in early and depending on the news day and the paperwork, stay late. Sometimes though, I don't come in at all or leave early. That's one of the perks of being the boss. I don't have to hang around watching the clock until quitting time."   
  


"You do keep an appointment book, though, don't you?"   
  


"Yeah, but Casey usually takes it home with her, so I can study who I'm going to see the next day."   
  


"But somebody could take a look at it during the day, say, while she's away from her desk, and get an idea of how late you'll be staying?"   
  


"It's possible," Britt admitted. "Do you have any leads at all?"   
  


When Morrisey looked at him doubtfully, Britt said sharply, "My wife and I were nearly killed and some of my staff were killed. I think I have the right to know exactly where things stand." 

"Mr. Reid, you don't have a right to know. This is a police matter. Leave it in the hands of the police."   
  


Britt fought down a sudden flash of anger, forcing himself to sound reasonable, "Look, I'm a newspaperman. It's my job and that of my people to ask questions. We can find out things that the police might not be able to. People who wouldn't talk to a cop, might be more willing to talk to a reporter. Together, you and I might be able to get whoever did this. The more things you can tell me about this case. My case," he emphasized."The better the chance I won't dismiss something vital, because I don't know how it relates to the case."   
  


"Okay," Morrisey said reluctantly, "But this is strictly off the record. I don't want to see anything I tell you wind up in your paper tomorrow. Especially since all of this is hearsay. Nothing is known for sure yet."   
  


"Of course. You have my word. This is completely off the record," Britt agreed. "Now tell me what kind of leads you have."   
  


Morrisey thumbed through his notebook. "I have several leads, but I don't think any of them will pan out. A Miss Travis at your paper was very helpful. She pulled out all the hate mail you or your paper received in the past few months. We're checking all the addresses out and interviewing anyone who actually had the guts, or stupidity, to use their real name or address. I don't think there's anything very promising, except for this." He pulled out a plastic bag with an envelope and a folded piece of paper and handed it to Britt. "This came to your office, or rather what's left of it, in this morning's mail. Look at the postmark. It was mailed two days ago, and yet it says that the Sentinel deserved what it got and that it could happen again if you aren't careful. Now in my book, that's the same as saying they did it, but we're having a hard time nailing anybody down in that organization for questioning."   
  


Britt turned the bag around and studied the envelope and letter in it. "Were there any fingerprints on it?"he asked.   
  


"There were a lots of fingerprints on it. Anything that goes through the mail has dozens of prints on it, but there's no telling which ones are from the perp and which are from somebody who handled it between the mailbox and your office. The letter was typed on an old typewriter, though, and if we can find it, we'll be able to make a match."   
  


"What about the envelope?" Britt asked, noticing that while the letter had a printed letterhead on it, the envelope was unmarked except for the mailing address and stamp.   
  


"Nothing out of the ordinary, you can buy two boxes for a buck at any office supply store in town." 

Britt checked the letterhead on the paper. "Aryan Pride and Purity of North America," he read, noting the black double-headed eagle holding a bloody sword in its claws.   
  


Morrisey nodded, extending his hand for the plastic bag. "That's one of those Neo-Nazi groups that's trying to spread their kind of hate all over the country."   
  


"I know," Britt said, "but why me or the Sentinel?"   
  


"That's what I'm wondering. Is your paper working on anything about them? Say, some kind of exposé or something?"   
  


"Not that I know of," Britt answered.   
  


"Wouldn't you know about something like that?"   
  


"I should. I've frequently made it clear that I want to know ahead of time about anything as touchy as this could be. Anybody who's planning on something like that has to get my express permission before going ahead with it."   
  


"Do they always?" 

"No," Britt said ruefully. "Sometimes people like to pursue things on their own to make sure it'll pan out before coming to me with it. I'll check into it and see if anybody was working on something on the APP. How solid are your suspicions about them?"   
  


"Outside of that letter, we have nothing else to tie them in with the bombing."   
  


"Do you think they did it? In your personal opinion, that is."   
  


"I doubt it. Those guys are into hi-tech stuff. That bomb wasn't their style. It could've been made in somebody's basement."   
  


"Still, it did plenty of damage," Britt reminded him.   
  


"Yeah, but it could've been worse if a more sophisticated bomb had been used."   
  


"I know. So you think this was the work of an amateur?"   
  


Morrisey nodded. "Yeah, I do."   
  


"That's going to make it hard to find out who made it."   
  


"Right. So can you think of anyone else who might've done it? Say, somebody who has a grudge against you or your paper?"   
  


"Unfortunately, I have a lot of enemies. There have been quite a few attempts on my life in the past."   
  


"Is that how you got those scars? They look like they're old bullet wounds."   
  


"Yeah, they came from an attack almost thirty years ago. I was in a coma for a week and my left leg has never been the same since."   
  


"I see. Hmm, nearly thirty years ago . . . " Morrisey said thoughtfully, "Wasn't the Green Hornet active around then?"   
  


"He was."   
  


"And now he's back in business. Could he have something against you enough to want to plant a bomb?"   
  


"The Hornet has no reason to like me or the Daily Sentinel," Britt admitted. "He has had plenty of reasons in the past to get rid of me, but bombs aren't his style. I know from personal experience that he prefers the more direct way of settling a grudge. Besides, if that bomb was as amateurish as you said it was, it wouldn't be the Hornet's work. He's no amateur."   
  


Morrisey made a quick note. "So the Green Hornet's out for now. What about that Arab conference the Daily Sentinel's been supporting? I bet there's a lot of people who don't want to see peace in that area. This might be their way of stopping the conference."   
  


"That's a possibility," Britt agreed. "We have been receiving a lot of mail against it. You've probably seen it. Somebody might have figured that by attacking the newspaper the conference would be called off."   
  


"Would it?"   
  


"I hope not, but the people holding the conference are extremely security conscious. A serious threat to the delegates' safety could lead to cancellation or a move to a different location."   
  


Morrisey checked through his notes. "Well, that's all for now. Now you know as much as I do. Let me know if you think of anything else."   
  


Britt rose and extended his hand, "I sure will, and I hope that we'll be able to work together on this."   
  


"Maybe we will, Mr. Reid," Morrisey said, the ghost of a smile cracking his dour face. "There's one thing though . . . "   
  


"What's that?"   
  


"I think I'm going to keep that Neo-Nazi group and the Green Hornet near the top of my list. An amateurish bomb might be a ruse to throw us off track. After all, if it had gotten to your desk, you would've been just as dead as if by something fancier."   
  


After Morrisey had left, Britt decided that it was time to visit Casey again. This time making sure that the nurses at the desk knew where he was going. There was no need to create another uproar.   
  


  
  
  
  


He instantly recognized the white-haired man sitting at Casey's bedside as the much talked about televangelist, Dr. Ernest P. Goode. As Dr. Goode rose to take his offered hand, Britt noticed that the man was much smaller than he had expected, barely coming up to his shoulder.   
  


"Mr. Reid, it is a pleasure to meet you. Your lovely wife and I have been having a wonderful time talking together. She has such a fascinating viewpoint about religion," he said smiling warmly, his dark brown eyes glittering behind silver framed glasses.   
  


Britt nodded and chuckled. "Casey does have an interesting viewpoint on religion. I'm glad you weren't offended by it. Many evangelists would not have liked it."   
  


"I didn't say that I don't find it disagreeable. It is another example how people like her have been seduced by secular humanism. It sounds so reasonable and so logical to people who fancy themselves intellectuals." He smiled benignly down at Casey. "Unfortunately, Mrs. Reid, like so many others does not realize that God requires of us a faith that does not depend on logic or reason. Such a faith requires us to believe as a child does, with the open, unquestioning heart of pure love."   
  


Casey's eyes flashed angrily. "A person can't stay a child forever, Dr. Goode. We all have to grow up and learn to ask questions instead of relying on what everyone is telling us." Her smile barely covered the acid in her words, "I've heard of too many cases where people have been duped by those who demanded that their authority not be questioned."   
  


Dr. Goode gave Casey a look like that of a parent of a too precocious child who had made an embarrassing mistake. "It is a true pleasure to discuss controversial matters with you, Mrs. Reid. Not only are you beautiful, but you definitely have a mind of your own. I look forward to the day when you finally see the error of your false beliefs and decide to accept God's saving grace."   
  


"I've never considered myself lost," Casey said defiantly.   
  


Dr. Goode shrugged. "Those who are lost rarely are aware of being so." He raised his hand before Casey could retort. "I think at this time we must agree to disagree," he said soothingly. "I would not want to distress you any further, especially considering the circumstances that brought you and so many of your staff to this hospital."   
  


Effectively dismissing the peeved Casey, he turned his attention to Britt who had watched the entire exchange with amused interest. "Mr. Reid, have you had any word on who might have been responsible for the attack on your paper?" he asked.   
  


Britt shook his head. "No. I just finished talking to a police detective and he wouldn't tell me a thing about their investigation. I doubt they have any idea who might have done it."   
  


"I see," Dr. Goode said, frowning thoughtfully. "Through my ministry I hear many things. Most of them are just rumors, but one never knows . . . "   
  


"What kind of rumors?" Britt asked.   
  


"Well . . . " Goode's voice lowered, his eyes flickered about conspiratorially. "You know our fair city has lately developed a very large Muslim community, and you know that they have been very active in converting a great many people, especially the black poor, from God's true faith." Goode's eyes narrowed as his voice lowered into a whisper, "People have come to me, people who have rejected the Arab's heretical cult. They have told me that there are people, Palestinians, I think they said, who are very much against the Arab conference that is coming here next week. They tell me these people are planning on attacking the delegates and the people supporting the conference. You, I understand, are one of its biggest supporters. Aren't you?"   
  


"I am," Britt said. "Did your informants say exactly who these people are?"   
  


"No, but I suspect they have something to do with that mosque down near the waterfront. I wouldn't be surprised to hear that they're teaching terrorism at the school that's tied to it." Dr. Goode shook his head sadly, "Evil times are upon this country when foreigners insist upon importing their alien cults here. You must beware, Mr. Reid. That attack will not be the last. Of that I am sure. If you ask me, it would be safer for everyone if that conference was canceled immediately."   
  


"Sorry, Dr. Goode, but I'm not about to let some faceless madman dictate to me about what I will and will not do," Britt said defiantly.   
  


"That's too bad. I hope you won't come to regret your decision," Dr. Goode said grimly.   
  


  
  


"He gives me the creeps," Casey commented after Dr. Goode had left. "If I were the police, I'd put him at the top of my list of suspects."   
  


"Maybe you're right," Britt admitted, "It might be a good idea to check his background," he said thoughtfully. "Why did you let him to see you anyway?"   
  


"He came in right after Detective Weston left. I thought talking with him might be interesting."   
  


"Was it?"   
  


"It was, but I have to admit that people like him scare me. He's so sure that everything he does is not only right, but has God's direct approval." Her brows knitted in thought for a moment. "Doesn't James O'Leary go to his church?"   
  


"O'Leary?"   
  


"That young man who started a lunchtime bible study group at the Sentinel. I think he's a photographer."   
  


"Yes, now I remember him. He seems to be a good kid, but I think I'll see if I can get Lee assigned to work with him. Maybe he can find out something about Dr. Goode from O'Leary."   
  


"Britt," Casey said worriedly, "Do you have any plans for tonight?"   
  


Britt smiled, caressing her hand. "You have something in mind?"   
  


She tightly grasped his hand, seriously looking into his eyes. "You know what I mean."   
  


"Probably not tonight. I want to wait until I get more information before hitting the streets."   
  


"I heard what you told Dr. Goode. Is it the truth? You've heard nothing from the police about the attack?"   
  


"According to Detective Morrisey they don't have anything definite yet. He showed me a letter from some Neo-Nazi group that came in today's mail. It mentioned the bombing, which they couldn't have known about when it was mailed. Unless, of course, they knew about it beforehand."   
  


"Would that be the Aryan Pride and Purity of North America group?"   
  


Britt nodded. "You've heard of them?"   
  


"They've been sending us a lot of hate mail the last few weeks. You were so busy setting up that conference, that I went ahead and had Ed Lowrey look into them."   
  


"What did he dig up?" Britt asked.   
  


"Not much. They're a very secretive group, especially when it comes to talking to reporters. Ed said he has somebody in their organization that he's working on getting to talk to him."   
  


"Good. I'll call Lowrey and find out more about these guys before we head out."   
  


"Britt, please be careful. Ed said the leader, Anthony Hakenkrueze, is a real nutcase," Casey cautioned.   
  


"Don't worry about me. You know I'm always careful." Britt bent down and planted a loving kiss on her forehead, but her brow remained furrowed with worry. 


	2. The Red Knight

Chapter Two   
  


The Red Knight   
  


I   
  


Ed Lowrey signaled for another beer as he settled more deeply into the worn red velvet booth. Even if his APP contact didn't make the meeting the night wouldn't be a total loss. Not when it included listening to Big Mamma Biggs sing her own special brand of the blues. Lowrey had chosen the smoky cellar that was The Sweet Magnolia for two reasons. The first was that he knew that a place where blacks outnumbered whites three to one would make the neo-Nazi decidedly uncomfortable, and anything that made the man uneasy would work to the his advantage.   
  


The second reason was purely selfish. The Sweet Magnolia was one of his favorite haunts ever since that day in high school when some of his black school pals had dared him to come with them to the dark lounge. In those days the air was blue with marijuana smoke and Black Panthers plotted in darkened corners, but Lowrey had proved to be a good sport even to the point of plinking out a good boogie woogie rift on the old upright piano. It especially helped that Big Mama Biggs had taken an immediate liking to the scrawny white boy who looked like he hadn't eaten in days. It was a great time in his life. Lowrey saw many of the best blues and jazz musicians play on The Sweet Magnolia's small stage including Al Hirt who played a heart racing version of The Flight of the Bumblebee dedicated to the memory of the city's least favorite son - the Green Hornet.   
  


Gradually this part of downtown was rediscovered by the moneyed and those who considered themselves hip. Part of this discovery was The Sweet Magnolia. Although the clientele changed with the Black Panthers giving way to well-dressed men and women, both black and white, and marijuana joints gave way to clove cigarettes and expensive cigars, the Sweet Magnolia stayed the same with Big Mama Biggs singing the blues. Then some hot shots in the city government decided that The Sweet Magnolia was in serious need of redevelopment - read razing - especially since Big Mama had gotten seriously behind in her taxes and the little piece of property it sat on could bring in a lot of money if a glass high-rise sat on it instead of a dingy brownstone.   
  


Always ready for a challenge, Lowrey had led the fight to save The Sweet Magnolia and had won readily. Of course it helped that by then he was working for the Daily Sentinel and that Britt Reid was always ready for a fight, especially when it involved City Hall. The victory was a reward for Big Mama Biggs' affection for the scrawny kid who grew up into the scrawny man and she in turn always gave him the best seat in the house whenever he wandered in. Lowrey had a lot of friends in The Sweet Magnolia and that suited him just fine. If the neo-Nazi tried anything, he'd be squashed like a bug.   
  


Lowrey spotted his man as soon as he appeared at the foot of the narrow stairs that led into the lounge. In the dim light of the single red bulb at the bottom of the stairs Lowrey checked out the stranger. The man was dressed in a black leather trenchcoat and a black fedora that was tilted low on his forehead. Lowrey grimaced. The guy was probably thinking he was acting inconspicuous, all the while only succeeding in standing out like a sore thumb. All he needed was a red arm band with a swastika on it and a big neon sign over his head flashing 'Nazi, Nazi'. Lowrey shook his head, the guy's seen too many WWII spy movies.   
  


Lowrey waved a hand, caught the man's attention and motioned for him to join him in the half circle booth. Closer up the reporter saw that the man was very young, probably a college freshman or sophomore.   
  


"You want a beer?" Lowrey asked. 

The man nodded and Lowrey signaled for the waiter to bring over two beers. Lowrey waited until the beers arrived, and the had waiter left. "So you're Erich Crossman?" he asked.   
  


The man nodded. "And you're Ed Lowrey? From the Daily Sentinel?"   
  


Lowrey nodded._ Well, we're just getting along swimmingly, aren't we?_ he thought.   
  


"Do you have the money?" Crossman asked as he nervously rotated the frosty beer mug between his hands.   
  


"Yeah. You get fifty now and another fifty if your information pans out."   
  


"I want a hundred now," Crossman demanded. 

"No can do. I'm not laying that kind of money out for what might be bogus information. Take it or leave it."   
  


"I have to have the money. I have to leave town. Hakenkrueze will kill me when he finds out I've talked." 

Lowrey shrugged. "Not my problem, buddy."   
  


Crossman's dark brown eyes met Lowrey's blue, studying the reporter, measuring his mood, then fell in embarrassment. "I need at least seventy-five. That'll get me a bus ticket out of this town. I don't care about the rest."   
  


Lowrey was silent for a few minutes, letting Crossman stew. "How did you get into this, kid?" he asked.   
  


Crossman shrugged. "It was in high school. We thought it was fun to pick on the other kids, especially the geeks. We got a lot of respect and nobody dared to cross us. Then we met Hakenkrueze. He told us about how us whites had to stand up for our rights, before the colored races and mixed bloods destroyed us and everything America stood for. It sounded good and it gave us a reason to beat up on other people. A cause, you know." Crossman grinned for a moment, looking very young. "Hell, the uniforms are the bomb." The grin fell suddenly under the reporter's glare.   
  


"So why are you talking to me?" Lowrey asked. 

Crossman hesitated. Lowrey pushed a fifty to him. "Fifty now, and I'll give you twenty-five if I think I can use what you tell me."   
  


The neo-Nazi's hand slid over the fifty and disappeared into the trenchcoat's pocket. "Hakenkrueze's going nuts. At first it was only hassling the spics, niggers and the rest of them. You know spraying graffiti on stores and walls, a rock through somebody's window. A burning cross on some uppity guy's lawn. You know, the usual stuff. Nothin' much."   
  


Lowrey suppressed his shock at the young man's casual attitude toward terrorizing other people. "And then what happened?"   
  


"Hakenkrueze is acting now like he's gonna take over the world or something. He thinks he's some big hot shot now and he's bossing everybody all over the place. He's building himself an army and is buying a lot of guns. There's even talk of buying an old nuke or two from the Ruskies. That's crazy man. If one of those damn things went off, they'd make everything radioactive and we'd all turn into monsters. You know like those Jap movies, like Godzilla and stuff, you know."   
  


"And . . . " Lowrey pressed, wondering if Crossman had any point to this.   
  


Crossman's eyes nervously slid around the room. "Like I said, man, I don't like the idea of those nukes, especially Rusky ones. They're not like American ones. They could go off and kill us all."   
  


"What's Hakenkrueze planning on doing with them?"   
  


"I hear that he's planning on using them on our enemies, especially the ragheads. You know, nuke them all and take their oil. He wants us to join the ROTC at college and get into the Air force and Army and stuff. Then when the time's right we'll show America the right thing to do with all those foreigners."   
  


"Does Hakenkrueze have the nukes?"   
  


"No, not yet. At least that's what I heard. We don't have enough money yet, but we're working on it. There's something else though . . . "   
  


"What's that?"   
  


"Hakenkrueze is talking about using mind control to make everybody do what he wants them to do."   
  


"And that bothers you?"   
  


"It's not so bad if it was just the lesser races, but he's talking about doing it to us too. He says it would make us better soldiers, that we'd become super soldiers and not be afraid of nothing."   
  


"And that scares you?"   
  


"Yeah, man," the young neo-Nazi looked at the reporter like he was crazy. "It's one thing to scare a bunch of dumb shopkeepers, but to have to fight and be so mind controlled you would keep on fighting even after you're hurt real bad. No way, man. I don't like the idea of being in ROTC either. You got to take orders and stuff. That's why I don't much like Hakenkrueze anymore. He wants to turn us into an army. Some of the guys are all Gung ho about it, especially those militia types. But not me, man. All I want to do is have a little fun. Not get shot at."   
  


"I see," Lowrey said. "And what have you heard about the bombing at the Daily Sentinel?"   
  


"Not much. Hakenkrueze says that whoever did it should've at least done a better job and got rid of Reid, instead of just a bunch of reporters."   
  


Lowrey bit back an angry retort. Those "bunch of reporters" had been his friends. "So you don't think Hakenkrueze is behind the bombing." 

Crossman shrugged. "I don't think so, but you never know. Some of the guys would do anything for Hakenkrueze. If he just hinted that he wanted somebody taken care of, they'd do it without even thinking twice about it."   
  


"Has Hakenkrueze ever hinted that he wanted Mr. Reid or the Daily Sentinel 'taken care of'?"   
  


"A few times, yeah. Reid's a yellow pinko commie lover. Hakenkrueze is always bitching about his liberal leftist editorials giving people ideas, especially the minorities. He's always saying that one of these days somebody's going to shut Reid up and take his paper away from him. Then we'd see how a newspaper should be run."   
  


"Do you have any ideas who might be willing to take care of Mr. Reid for Hakenkrueze?" Lowrey asked, tantalizingly sliding a fifty toward Crossman.   
  


Crossman's hand reached eagerly toward the bill, but it disappeared under the reporter's hand. "Names first," Lowrey demanded.   
  


"I'm not sure . . . " Crossman said hesitantly.   
  


"I want a list, with addresses, of anybody you might even suspect of bombing the Sentinel," Lowrey said, showing the fifty temptingly between his fingers.   
  


Crossman's eyes slid nervously around the room. "Not here. I've been here too long already. I can't stay any longer."   
  


Lowrey picked up the fifty with a shrug and began folding it, first in half, then fourths and so on until only the 50 on the bill's corner was showing. "Too bad. You think the first fifty will get you far enough?" he asked.   
  


"Look, Lowrey . . . " Crossman began threateningly.   
  


"No, you look, Kid. I was there right after the blast. Those people who were killed or hurt were my buddies. I don't like my friends being hurt. So unless you can give me something more than stuff I already know, you're just going to have to figure how far a fifty-dollar bus ticket is going to take you. Of course if Hakenkrueze's group is as big as you're hinting, it's not going to be anywhere near far enough."   
  


The young neo-Nazi nervously licked his lips. "Add another fifty to that one and I'll tell you where the APP's headquarters is."   
  


"Tell me, and if I buy it, I'll give you two. If not, you get squat."   
  


Crossman swallowed hard. "You ever hear of The Red Knight?"   
  


"Yeah sure, isn't that one of those military type security outfits?"   
  


"Yeah. It's owned by a Colonel Greenwood, but it's just a front for the APP. Greenwood handles all the weapons and military supplies through The Red Knight, but it's all for the APP. Hakenkrueze has Greenwood under his thumb."   
  


"I've heard of Greenwood. He's a Vietnam vet, and a super patriot to boot with a purple heart to his name. Why would he mess with Hakenkrueze and the APP?"   
  


"I dunno, but I know what I've seen, Hakenkrueze is running the show."   
  


"So the APP is tied in with the Red Knight. Where's their headquarters?"   
  


"In the Red Knight building in the Framingham Industrial Park, all underground. There's barracks, gyms, a mess hall, everything an army needs."   
  


"And that's where we'll find Hakenkrueze?" Lowrey asked.   
  


"Yeah," Crossman answered as he hungrily watched Lowrey slip the folded fifty toward him.   
  


"You'll get the third fifty after I get the list of names and confirmation on the tie in with The Red Knight."   
  


"But . . . " Crossman protested.   
  


"No buts. I want the list and confirmation first."   
  


"Okay," Crossman said reluctantly. He rose to his feet. "I gotta get out of here. I'll call you later and set up a place where I can give you the list before I leave town. I'll expect the third fifty then."   
  


"Sure," Lowrey said, half expecting the young man to be out of town on the first bus out.   
  


Lowrey waited several minutes until the young neo-Nazi had left The Sweet Magnolia. He wanted to wait even longer, maybe catch another set before heading home, but it was getting late and he'd have to contact the boss before it got too late. Big Mama Biggs met him as he slid out of the booth. Behind her was her favorite bouncer, Little Timmy. Little Timmy was a light-skinned black with red hair. He was anything but little, towering over even the tall reporter and outweighing him by a good hundred pounds, all of it muscle. Big Mama was the only one who ever called him 'Timmy'. Everyone else called him, 'sir'.   
  


"Eddy," Big Mama said, "I want Timmy here to go out with you to your car."   
  


"Now, Mama, I don't think that's necessary. That runt kid's probably halfway to Texas by now. I don't need anybody walking me out to my car."   
  


"I ain't asking you, Eddy. I'm tellin' you. Timmy's walkin' out with you. One of them Nazi pigs might not be a problem, but they tend to run in packs. 'Sides Timmy could stand a breath of fresh air anyway."   
  


"Okay, Mama," Lowrey said with a crooked grin. It never did any good to argue with Big Mama. _She might have a point too_, he thought.   
  


  
  


Lowrey shrugged more deeply into his coat as a gust of cold air lashed at him as he stepped out of the narrow door. "You sure you want to go out into this?" he asked the bouncer who taken the time to grab a coat before they headed out.   
  


"Big Mama would kill me if I didn't do what she told me," answered the bouncer.   
  


The reporter shook his head. Big Mama was probably the only one that the oversized bouncer was afraid of. "My car's not too far, just around the corner."   
  


  
  


Big Mama was right about needing protection, except it wasn't Lowrey who needed it. It was Crossman who had needed it, and he was now way past where it would do him any good. He laid next to the reporter's car, spreadeagled, his arms and legs forming a cross, mirroring the cross sliced into his forehead. Little Timmy bent to check the young man's body. The white collar of the neo-Nazi's shirt was red from the blood of his neatly garroted throat. "We got to call the cops," he said, turning away from the still body.   
  


Lowrey nodded his agreement, then something about his car caught his eye. Something wasn't quite right. He wasn't the type of man who kept his car sparkling even in the best of weather, and during the winter he didn't see the point of washing it just to see it get dirty as soon as he drove out of the car wash. As a result the car was a nearly uniform muddy brown. It would stay that way until the spring rains. Except along the front edge of the hood the car's true color was showing. Since he hadn't gotten under the hood lately, Lowrey knew something was very wrong. Slowly he began stepping away from the car, motioning Little Timmy to follow him, afraid that the slightest misstep or word might set something off.   
  


The vibration from the blast sent both men their knees. They would have been killed but they had managed to creep around the corner before it happened The sturdy brick and stone of the old brownstone took most of the explosion's force. Lowrey picked himself up and glared back at what was left of his car. "Damn!" he said, kicking a stray piece of chrome.   
  
  
  


II   
  
  
  


Britt checked his watch as he waited for the hospital elevator. It was nearly six o'clock. That was one of the good things about winter. It got dark early, giving him more time to operate as the Green Hornet before the sun rose. He would still have to watch the time, or the nurses would notice that he had been gone a long time. It was probably a bad idea to stay at the hospital in Casey's room after he had been released, but he didn't want to go home to an empty house. He also preferred to spend his nights with Casey. Despite his denial of the need for police protection, he felt better keeping an eye on her himself. After hearing about the attack on Lowrey the night before he was even more worried about her safety.   
  


  
  


Dressed in a black chauffeur's uniform, Lee greeted Britt at the door of the townhouse with a large grin. "I've been waiting for you. The Black Beauty is filled up and ready to go."   
  


"Say it a little louder," Britt said in mock seriousness, "I don't think the people across the street heard you."   
  


Lee's face instantly fell. "Sorry," he replied quietly, "I forgot."   
  


Shaking his head, Britt gently pushed his way into the townhouse and headed for the garage. "I see you're still eager for action," he said with an ironic smile.   
  


"Sure," Lee said, quickly brightening when he realized that Britt had been teasing him. "All week long all we've done is chase down leads on these Aryan Pride guys. Now that we finally have a location on them, I'm ready for some real action."   
  


"Sure you don't want to just turn what we have over to the police. They are the right people to take care of this," Britt suggested.   
  


"No way," Lee said emphatically as he followed Britt down a short flight of stairs into the garage. "They're liable to mess things up. Besides," he added, "this is personal. I was one of the first people at the Sentinel after the blast. I helped with the injured and saw what those bastards did. It's payback time now."   
  


"The APP may not be responsible. We're after answers, not to beat in somebody's head because we feel like it."   
  


"You're probably right, but when we do get the guys behind the bombing, I want my pound of flesh," Lee said grimly.   
  


"You'll get yours, young man, but remember, I'm first," Britt said as he opened a secret panel in the garage wall.   
  


He pulled out a white scarf, draped it across his shoulders and crossed its ends across his chest. Next, he pulled out a midnight green topcoat and slipped into it, making sure that a thin strip of the scarf showed past the coat's neckline. Finally a dark green mask with a green hornet on its brow and a green snap brim hat completed the transformation from newspaper publisher to the Green Hornet, a man feared by the underworld and, falsely believed a master criminal, hunted by the police.   
  


He handed Lee a mask of similar design, but black and unmarked. Lee accepted it with a slight bow, and donned it as had his father before him. Lee had not only assumed his father's role as the Green Hornet's aide, but had also assumed his name, Kato. With a spring in his step, Kato turned and walked to a pair of tool-filled pegboards. He selected a socket wrench on the left-hand pegboard and without removing it, twisted the socket twice. A small panel opened between the pegboards, revealing a number of buttons and ready lights. He pressed a button and the bright overhead light dimmed to a pale green glow. Another button was pressed and a low whine came from under them as part of the garage floor began to slowly tip upwards and then turned completely over, revealing the low-slung form of the Black Beauty. Four stout clamps that had secured the heavy car to the turntable snapped back into the floor, leaving no sign of their existence.   
  


The Green Hornet smiled slightly as he saw the barely suppressed eagerness on Kato's face. The sight of the big black car rising out of its hidden berth like some kind of prehistoric leviathan was still a new experience to the much younger man. Yet, he had to admit to himself that he too felt the thrill of excitement whenever he saw the Black Beauty even though he had ridden in her hundreds of times. Bigger and more massive in design than anything out of Detroit, or anywhere else in today's world, the Black Beauty was a survivor, like himself, of another time when to a lot of people things seemed so much simpler. He knew better.   
  


Although the weapons may have gotten bigger and the accents may have changed, things were still much the same. The strong still preyed on the weak and corruption could break the back of a just society. He had fought against it for most of his adult life through the Daily Sentinel and now he had picked up where he had left off so many years ago as the Green Hornet. Today new criminals, and police officers were learning to recognize the long, black form and heavy shield shaped grill of the Green Hornet's car and the trouble it brought. Many years ago, it had been called by those who witnessed its awesome firepower, a rolling arsenal. Now others were learning that epithet, as well as conjuring up new ones.   
  


Kato flipped one more switch before closing the panel, and the left-hand doors of the big black car opened. He slid behind the steering wheel as the Green Hornet assumed his customary place in the passenger seat behind him. The Green Hornet took a deep breath, and relaxed. It felt good. He opened a compartment set in the back of the front seat and pulled out a slender green pistol that had its trigger set not below the slim barrel but rather where the hammer would be in a normal handgun. He flipped open the pistol's butt, slid a cartridge inside, and checked the pressure gauge set in the pistol's side. Satisfied with the reading, he said, "Hornet gas gun, check."   
  


Next, he pulled out a long black collapsible cylinder bound with gold bands at both ends. He flipped aside the domed end and a low insistent buzzing filled the air as a glow came from the weapon's interior. "Hornet sting, check," he said.   
  


"Check the Scanner," he ordered.   
  


Kato lifted the lid of the armrest to his right, revealing a set of switches and buttons. He flipped a switch and a pair of doors opened in the center of the Black Beauty's rear deck. A miniature satellite equipped with a TV camera lifted up on its launching pad and beeped a ready signal. "Scanner, check," he said.   
  


The Green Hornet nodded his acknowledgment. "Let's roll, Kato."   
  


The Black Beauty's powerful engine roared to life, then settled down to a quiet, deep throated purr. Kato pressed a button on the dashboard and the back wall of the townhouse, including an ivy espalier in a wooden planter, rose in front of them. The Black Beauty silently rolled out and under Kato's guidance moved through a maze of back alleys until it reached a brick wall. The wall split in half, and the Black Beauty exited through a billboard into another alley. Behind the car, the man and woman in a tattered breath candy advertisement were reunited in a minty kiss, How sweet it is.   
  


"Kato," the Green Hornet said, "Remember that we are now a gentleman and his chauffeur out on a late evening drive."   
  


"Looking for Christmas presents? Or a good time?" Kato asked lightly.   
  


"Neither. We're out to give somebody a hard time."   
  


"Sounds like a good time to me," Kato replied.   
  


The Green Hornet smiled. "Just make sure you take it easy and obey all traffic laws. We don't want to call any attention to ourselves, or the cops will be giving us a hard time."   
  


"I hear you. We could go dark and silent," Kato suggested.   
  


"No, not yet. That would make us even more noticeable. There's still a lot of traffic on the streets."   
  


"Last minute shoppers," Kato commented.   
  


"Whatever, just try to be inconspicuous."   
  


"In a old limo that's twice the size of anything else on the road? Right," Kato said skeptically.   
  


"You might have a point there. But that's even more reason to watch our P's and Q's. We'll go dark and silent once we hit the Framingham Industrial Park."   
  


The Green Hornet settled back into his seat, forcing himself to relax. The time for action would come soon enough. The streets were indeed full of people returning from last minute Christmas shopping trips. Lighted candy canes and stars hung on light poles throughout the downtown area. His mind went unbidden to those from the City Room who would not be celebrating Christmas this year, and of their families who would not be having any reason to celebrate this year and for many years to come.   
  


Kato cleared his throat, interrupting the Green Hornet's grim thoughts. "Too bad all this stuff is happening at the same time your son's come home with a fiancee," he commented. "What are you going to do about him?" he asked.   
  


"About the wedding? We'll go ahead with it anyway. By Christmas everything should've settled down."   
  


"Actually, I wasn't thinking about the wedding. I'm worried about the Green Hornet business. John seems to be an awfully sharp guy. With your going out every night like this, he's sure to catch on that you're up to something."   
  


"I'll just have to make sure that I'm very, very careful," the Green Hornet replied.   
  


"Your daughter's coming home too, isn't she?"   
  


"Yeah, she is. She'll be coming home to help out with everything right after finals."   
  


"And of course, she'll be staying at the house."   
  


"Yeah," the Green Hornet answered thoughtfully. "I see your point. It's going to be damn hard to keep this under wraps."   
  


"So what are you going to do about it?"   
  


The Green Hornet sighed. "At the moment I can't think of a thing."   
  


"How would they react if they found out?"   
  


The Green Hornet shook his head, not liking the thoughts running through his head. "I have no idea."   
  


Kato looked back at the Green Hornet in the rearview mirror. "Sorry I brought it up."   
  


"Forget it," the Green Hornet said. He closed his eyes, forcing the disturbing thoughts about John and Danielle from his mind. That problem would have to wait until later. Instead he had to consider what Ed Lowrey had told him earlier on the phone. Lowrey's contact had finally confirmed that the APP was closely related to Red Knight Security, an organization the dealt in alarms, security guards and miliary type gear. While the head of Red Knight was an ex-Vietnam officer by the name of Colonel Greenwood, Anthony Hakenkrueze was the real power in the organization. Other informants had repeated Casey's warning that Hakenkrueze was a genuine, and dangerous, sociopath. Believing that he was not only a member of a master race, but that he was the greatest of that so-called master race, he had gone to great lengths to develop his body through rigorous training, both physical and mental. He would be a hard man to fight. The Green Hornet hoped it wouldn't come to that   
  


Soon they left the bright lights of Downtown and were cruising easily along the freeway. It was a moonless night, cold, clear and crisp. It was dark beyond the city's fringes, broken only by the occasional orange glow of the sodium lights that marked ramps leading toward the small subdivisions that had sprung up as the city grew. Periodically the sky-reaching sign of gas station at the head of a ramp would spill brilliant white light against the soft glow. Beyond, barely visible from the freeway, could be seen the sleepy blue lights and colored Christmas strings of houses that huddled together against the night until the coming of another work day and the commute to the center of town.   
  


Following the people out from Downtown were many small businesses and industries seeking lower land rates and more spacious locations. Cagey developers, noticing this exodus, had designed parks of rolling hills and manicured landscaping for these businesses. One such was the Framingham Industrial Park, the Green Hornet's destination.   
  


"Okay, Kato," the Green Hornet said as they pulled off the right exit, "Go dark and silent."   
  


Kato nodded, pressed a button and the Black Beauty went dark as ordinary single headlamps rotated to reveal green double headlamps. A viewer from outside would have thought that the car was running blind, but from inside, the Green Hornet and Kato could see the road clearly through a special polarizing filter imbedded in the windshield. Kato next threw a switch and the car's powerful engine went silent. The Black Beauty became one with the night, a dark, silent ghost, a solid piece of the night itself.   
  


  
  


Crouched like a wary beast of prey at the heart of the industrial park was the headquarters of Red Knight Security. It was an ugly concrete grey, windowless, cheerless, out of place among the manicured lawns. Two stories in height, it was the largest and most impressive building in the park. Sunk iceberg-like several levels into the ground it was even larger than it appeared. The business it thrived on was fear.   
  


"Stop here, out of sight of the building," the Green Hornet ordered. "Send up the Scanner."   
  


The Scanner flew away from the Black Beauty and under the Green Hornet's control circled the squat building. "Do you see anything?" Kato asked as the Green Hornet watched the picture relayed back to him through the Scanner's light sensitive camera.   
  


"Not much," he answered. "I can see only three guards patrolling the outside the building. They're armed, of course, but they don't seem to be very alert. In fact, they look a little bored."   
  


Kato smiled tightly, "We'll just liven up their night a bit, won't we?" he said.   
  


"Don't get too eager yet, young man," the Green Hornet warned. "These people specialize in security. What they don't have in guards I'm sure they more than make up in other things. And they're sure to have the best."   
  


"Call the Scanner back," he said as he clicked off the TV screen. "I've seen enough. It's time we go in and find out about Mr. Hakenkrueze and the APP."   
  


  
  


The Green Hornet and Kato slipped toward the Red Knight building, taking care not to make a sound, always staying within the black shadows cast by the building. At the Green Hornet's signal, Kato moved behind the first guard and dropped him to the ground with a chop to the neck. Not even his gun was allowed to clatter to the concrete, but was snatched from the guard's unconscious fingers before he fell. As soon as the Green Hornet had the first man Kato went silently after the second one and dispatched him just as quickly as the first.   
  


"Two down, one to go," Kato whispered after he dropped the second man at the Green Hornet's feet.   
  


"Have you seen the third man yet?" the Green Hornet asked, as he set to binding the second man.   
  


Kato shook his head. "Not yet."   
  


"Have you been around the entire building?"   
  


Kato nodded.   
  


The Green Hornet frowned. "I don't like this. I saw all three men circling the building. He should've been out here."   
  


"Maybe you saw them during a shift change and the third guy is inside," Kato suggested.   
  


"No, that doesn't work. There would've been two guys relieving two, not one for one."   
  


Kato shrugged. "Damned if I can figure out what happened to the third guy."   
  


"We're going to have to find him before he finds us," the Green Hornet said, rising to his feet.   
  


They had only taken a few steps when a rough voice snapped, "Drop your weapons and put your hands up."   
  


The Green Hornet slowly turned to face the third guard.   
  


"Found him," Kato said under his breath.   
  


"Drop the gun," the guard repeated. His eyes widened, noticing the green mask. "The Green Hornet! So you're being still alive wasn't a bunch of crap after all."   
  


The Green Hornet maintained his grip on the gas gun. "That's right. I'm here to talk to your boss about a business deal. If you would be good enough to take us to him . . . "   
  


His eyes narrowing, the guard said, "The Colonel's got no business with your kind." He reached for the walkie-talkie at his hip. "Stay put while I put a call in to the cops."   
  


"I imagine you'll get a sizable reward for our capture," the Green Hornet said smoothly.   
  


Greed shone in the man's eyes. "I might at that."   
  


"It is a considerable sum if I remember correctly. Of course, after all these years, the offer may no longer be honored. One never knows. By the way, make sure that you do show the cops that briefcase of money I was bringing to the Colonel. I wouldn't like the cops to find it and then forget to report it."   
  


"Briefcase," the guard said, his eyes searching for it, the gun in his hand remaining steadily pointed at the Green Hornet's heart.   
  


"You can't see it from where you are. It's behind you to the right," the Green Hornet said helpfully.   
  


The guard's gun hand wavered, then steadied. He grinned. "That's one of the oldest tricks in the book." He snorted derisively. "Old even in your day. I'm turning you guys in. So no funny stuff." His voice hardened as his finger tightened on the trigger. "I told you to drop that gun."   
  


The Green Hornet nodded, smiling slightly as he presented the gas gun in his open palm. "You're too smart for me," he admitted, "You have us fair and square."   
  


Suddenly the Green Hornet threw the gas gun at the guard and dove for the ground. Kato charged past him and kicked the gun out of the guard's hand. The gun fired sending a bullet mere centimeters past Kato's face. The Green Hornet launched himself at the surprised guard and sent him flying into a snowbank with a powerful haymaker.   
  


"You okay?" he asked Kato as he retrieved his gas gun.   
  


Kato shook his head a few times. "Yeah, I think so. I just got some flash spots in my eyes, that's all."   
  


The Green Hornet advanced on the disarmed guard who was trying to get to his feet. "Listen to me very closely, my friend," he said tightly, "Your life depends on how useful you are to me."   
  


"What do you want?" the guard asked.   
  


"How do we get in without setting off the alarms?" the Green Hornet demanded.   
  


"I won't tell you," the guard muttered, trying to preserve his last shreds of self respect.   
  


Cold, green eyes narrowed behind the mask. "I think you will," the Green Hornet said in an ominously low voice.   
  


The guard forced himself to return the masked man's steady gaze. "I won't tell you." He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Not even if you kill me."   
  


The Green Hornet nodded grimly. "Sometimes, death can be a relief," he said, moving aside to allow Kato to approach the stricken man.   
  


"No," the guard gasped, trying to scrabble away from the black-clad chauffeur. "No, don't," he said shakily, the cold snow at his back warm compared to the icy chill of fear in his heart.   
  


"Talk!" the Green Horned barked.   
  


The guard licked dry lips. "You need a door key, and a code," he said quickly.   
  


The Green Hornet pulled the man to his feet by the collar of his uniform. "Show me," he demanded, pressing his face close to the guard's.   
  


  
  


The guard led the two masked men down the sloping ramp to the building's loading dock and service entrance. His back itched uncomfortably under the leveled aim of the odd green gun in the Green Hornet's gloved hand. He was even more conscious of the chauffeur's menacing presence as he walked beside him with panther-like grace.   
  


He pulled out his key card. "Here it is. You put it in this slot, punch in the code, and Bingo, the door opens," he explained. When he started to demonstrate, the Green Hornet caught his arm in an iron grip.   
  


"No funny stuff," he warned. "If the alarms go off, you're a dead man. Understand?"   
  


"I won't try anything. I swear," the guard shot back nervously.   
  


He placed the magnetic card into the slot next to the door and punched in his personal code. When the door opened Kato roughly pushed him inside while the Green Hornet waited outside.   
  


"Looks like it's all clear inside, Boss," Kato said after his eyes had adjusted to the dim nighttime lighting inside a crate-filled room.   
  


"Clear out here. So far," the Green Hornet said, still suspicious. "Let's move." He returned the muzzle of his gun toward the guard. "Where's the offices?"   
  


"They're on A level," the guard replied. 

"A level?" the Green Hornet echoed sharply.   
  


"The floor under this one."   
  


"Lead the way."   
  


The guard led the Green Hornet and Kato out of the storeroom and on into the salesroom. "The elevators are there, on the north wall. They're shut down for the night," he told them.   
  


"Where's the stairs?" the Green Hornet asked.   
  


"The door's to the right of the elevators."   
  


"Very good," the Green Hornet said, raising his gun. "We have no more need for you."   
  


The guard's eyes widened in fear. He tried backing away from the bizarre weapon, but the chauffeur standing behind him blocked his retreat. "No, no. I've done everything you've asked. For God's sake!" he screamed in terror as a green mist whispered out of the gun's muzzle. "Gas!" he choked out as the mist enveloped his face. He gasped, coughed and fell bonelessly to his knees.   
  


"Sleep tight," the Green Hornet said, watching the guard collapse to the floor.   
  


"He's going to be surprised to find out he's not dead when he wakes up in a few hours," Kato commented drily as he stepped over the prone man.   
  


"Let's get moving," the Green Hornet said. "We have a lot to do. I don't want to be here when he does wake up."   
  


"Gotcha," Kato said, falling into step behind the Green Hornet. "You know this place looks just like any other sporting goods store," he observed. "Except, I don't know, there's something weird about this place. It makes me feel jumpy."   
  


"Look at the kind of stuff they have here," the Green Hornet said. "Do you see any fishing or camping gear?"   
  


"No, not really. There are some tents, but they're all done up in camouflage. Not something you'd see at a KOA. There's a lot of hunting stuff though, rifles, bows. Big knives."   
  


"Right," the Green Hornet said. "There is a lot of hunting gear, but I doubt it's only for the four-legged kind of prey." He nodded toward a circular wire rack displaying a large number of bumper stickers.   
  


Kato read one, "Nuke your neighbor, before he nukes you. Heavy," he commented. "Some sport. They're all geared up for the end of the world."   
  


The Green Hornet nodded. "I think these are the kind of people who are actually eager for the end of civilization. Instead of dreading it."   
  


"So they can rebuild it in their own image," Kato said.   
  


"Most likely," the Green Hornet agreed. "If this place is a front for the APP, I'd hate to think about what kind of world they have in mind."   
  


Kato shuddered at the grim thoughts running through his mind. "If they're behind the bombing and are targeting the conference. The end of the world could come around a lot sooner than anyone else might think."   
  


"That's why we're here. To prevent that from happening."   
  


The two men slipped quietly down the steep stairway, their crepe-soled shoes not making a sound on the metal steps. The slender beams of their flashlights provided the only light in the narrow passageway. Ahead of them was a heavy steel door with A level stenciled in white. The stairs bent past the door down into a deep well of darkness. Kato peered down into the depths, his flashlight barely lighting the first few steps.   
  


He cast a questioning look at the Green Hornet, who shook his head and said silently, "Not yet."   
  


The Green Hornet gently pressed the panic bar on the door, but it was solidly locked. Gesturing for Kato to stand back, he backed up as far as he could on the narrow landing. He pulled the Hornet sting from an inner pocket of his coat. The sharp clicking of the sting being stretched to full length was alarmingly loud in the silent stairwell. He aimed the slender weapon at the door and pressed the trigger. The low hum that filled the air grew steadily louder until it became an earsplitting whine. The heavy steel door shook and glowed hotly under ultrasonic hammer blows until with a puff of smoke it slammed open.   
  


Kato entered first, shining his flashlight into a hallway. He went a few paces ahead, then finding nothing, returned to the blasted doorway and gave an all clear signal to the Green Hornet who took up the lead.   
  


The floor under their feet was heavily carpeted and the offices opening onto the hallway were luxuriously furnished. The Green Hornet entered the largest office which contained a large mahogany conference table and plush leather chairs. Near the rear of the room, facing the conference table, was a massive desk of the same heavy wood. An American flag and the state flag were stationed on either side of the desk. A marble name plate on the desk bore the legend stamped in gold leaf, "Colonel Carson Greenwood, ret."   
  


"I thought some guy named Hakenkrueze was the head of this place," Kato whispered.   
  


"Hakenkrueze is the head of the APP. Greenwood's the head of Red Knight, but he's just the front man. People who wouldn't touch Hakenkrueze or his organization are more than willing to deal with Greenwood. He's turned an impeccable Vietnam War record into a very profitable security business."   
  


"If he's such a big war hero, why is he mixed in with Hakenkrueze?"   
  


The Green Hornet shrugged. "I have no idea," he admitted. "Maybe he got turned off by the way the country's been run lately. Maybe he thinks the APP and their ilk have a better way of doing things. Who knows?"   
  


He began opening some of the desk's drawers, not really expecting to find anything.   
  


Kato continued to wander around the office, examining the many pictures and awards on its walls. "Do you know Greenwood?" he asked. "Personally, I mean."   
  


The Green Hornet shook his head. "Nope. He doesn't much care for the press. Like a lot of the military, he blames them for the failure of the Vietnam War." He grimaced distastefully. "Of course, it's a different matter when some positive publicity is wanted."   
  


"Looks like he's in tight with everybody else." Kato pointed to a photograph. "Isn't that Dr. Goode, the TV preacher?"   
  


The Green Hornet moved to Kato's side. "Yeah, that's him."   
  


"Looks like they're great pals." Kato indicated a framed document beside the photograph that was written in an intricate flowing calligraphy. "That's quite a testimonial."   
  


The Green Hornet nodded agreement, his eyes scanning the faces of the men behind the colonel and Dr. Goode. "There, behind the Colonel, you can barely see him," he said, pointing to a severely clean cut young man wearing the same kind of earnest seriousness seen in GQ clothing ads, "That's Hakenkrueze."   
  


Kato snorted derisively, looking at the man in the picture, "He doesn't look so tough."   
  


The Green Hornet smiled at the younger man's brash statement. "Let's hope you never have to find out the hard way about overestimating someone."   
  


"I'm not being overconfident. I know what I can do," Kato said proudly.   
  


The Green Hornet shook his head. "There's nothing more we can get out of here. Let's see if we can find where they keep their financial records," he said, heading for the door.   
  


The door marked RECORDS was locked, but the Hornet sting did a quick job of opening it. Large file cabinets lined the room's walls and several desks, each supplied with a computer terminal, filled most of the limited floor space. The Green Hornet tested the door of one of the file cabinets. Finding it locked, he prepared to work the sting's sonic beam on it.   
  


"Wait a minute," Kato said, "Let me see if I can pull something up on one of these terminals. It'd be a lot faster than going through all those files."   
  


"Do it," the Green Hornet responded, flicking the sting closed.   
  


Kato sat at one of the desks, for a moment searched for the power toggle on the monitor, and then with a quick "Ah" of satisfaction turned the terminal on.   
  


"Good," the Green Hornet commented, looking over Kato's shoulder, "They leave the system up during the night. Are you familiar with this type of operating system?"   
  


"Sure. A lot of businesses use it. The problem is going to be trying to get in. Do you think we have the time to search for the log in and password?"   
  


"No. I don't want to take any more time than if absolutely necessary. Let's go through these desks. Maybe somebody's been careless and left themselves a reminder."   
  


They searched quickly through each of the desks until at one that was strikingly bare of mementos, Kato found a small piece of paper under the keyboard with two words neatly printed on it. "Bingo," he said, showing the paper to the Green Hornet, "Must be somebody new."   
  


"Try it," the Green Hornet ordered.   
  


Kato sat down at the desk, flicked on the terminal and tapped out the first word at the log in prompt. It was accepted. He tapped in the second word at the password prompt which only showed as a series of asterisks. It was not accepted and the log in prompt reappeared.   
  


"Problem?" the Green Hornet asked.   
  


Kato rechecked the password's spelling on the paper. "I don't think so. I might've misspelled the word. That's a problem when you can't see it on the screen. I'll try it again."   
  


He tapped in the log in again and then repeated the password. "We're in," he said triumphantly as a menu appeared on the screen. He cracked his knuckles and poised his hands dramatically over the keyboard. "What do you want?"   
  


Bending over Kato's shoulder, the Green Hornet read the screen. "Let's see. Word processing, nope. Accounts receivable, maybe. Stock, another maybe. Payroll, that's another possibility. Here, let's see who're their biggest customers."   
  


Kato typed in the proper selections as he flipped through different screens until he pulled up the information the Green Hornet wanted.   
  


"U.S. military seems to be number one," the Kato said, reading the data. "Mostly stuff like uniforms and camping gear. Here are some foreign countries. Looks like they're buying the same kind of stuff. The rest of their customers are small companies and people buying things like security systems and guards." He smiled slightly. "Considering what we've run across, they aren't getting their money's worth." He quickly scrolled through the list of names. "I don't see anything on the APP."   
  


"You won't, at least not through this system. That kind of information will be something that's a hell of a lot more secure than this one."   
  


"Then why are we wasting our time on this then?"   
  


"You never know. We might luck out and find something that's useful even if they don't think it might be. Get out of this file and see where most of their money is going to."   
  


Kato pulled up the appropriate screen. "A lot of manufacturers of military type stuff. Here's something that's a little odd. There's a lot of money going to Dr. Goode's church."   
  


"Trace that back for the past year," the Green Hornet said.   
  


A scrolling list of numbers appeared on the screen, listed month by month, differing only by a few hundred dollars each month.   
  


"Blackmail?" Kato ventured.   
  


"No," the Green Hornet answered, "It looks like it's a tithe to Goode's church."   
  


"A true member of the faithful flock," Kato remarked wryly, "Guns and God, odd combination."   
  


"Unfortunately, it happens all the time," the Green Hornet remarked. "I think that's going to be all that we're going to get here." He quickly glanced at his watch. "We have a few more hours before we have to get back. Let's check the next floor. We still haven't found a connection to the APP yet. If we can get further down into this place, we might find something."   
  


  
  


Deep within the heart of the Red Knight building, in a room illuminated only by a bank of video monitors, Hakenkrueze watched the Green Hornet and Kato leave the records office. "Excellent," he breathed. "They are doing exactly as I expected."   
  


Colonel Greenwood frowned. "You never should've let them enter. Never mind letting them see that information."   
  


Hakenkrueze leaned backwards, stretching the kinks out of his back. He loosened up his shoulders, catlike enjoying the stretch. "That information was unimportant. Anyone could've gotten it with a little footwork and a lot of questions. They just happened to take the more direct route." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "And the more dangerous."   
  


"To whom?" the colonel asked, "Us or them?"   
  


"Them, of course," Hakenkrueze said confidently.   
  


"I don't like this," Greenwood said, frowning deeply. "The Green Hornet is a dangerous man. His interest in us could cause a lot of trouble."   
  


Hakenkrueze snorted derisively. He pressed his sneering face close to the colonel's, forcing him to take a step back. "The Green Hornet's an old man, way past his prime. Just like you are. You are both relics of another time, of another war. It's time to give way to someone younger, someone better. There is no place for you old men in today's world. Victory belongs to the young and the strong. To me," he hissed.   
  


Sucking in his gut, Greenwood pulled himself erect, glaring back at the younger man. "Be careful Hakenkrueze. Just because a man's grown a bit older, it doesn't mean he's washed up. I'm old because I was a lot smarter than those fools who thought that a bunch of big talk and strutting around was all there was to war. Those fools died young. I'm still around. The Green Hornet's a survivor like I am. He's a smart man who's managed to outlive most of his contemporaries. Watch out how you deal with him or he'll wipe the floor with you."   
  


Hakenkrueze shrugged off Greenwood's words. "You've grown too cautious in you old age." He turned back to the closed circuit monitor. "At least he hasn't. It will be most amusing dealing with him."   
  


Hakenkrueze studied the two figures on the monitor's screen as they moved down the stairs to the second level. It was too bad, he thought, that the video cameras were not equipped for sound; he would have loved to listen in on the conversation between the two men, especially when they had been looking at the picture of the colonel in some award ceremony with Dr. Goode. He wondered if they had noticed him in the picture, and if so what they had thought of him.   
  


He carefully studied the movements of the black-clad chauffeur. The man was about a half head shorter than the Green Hornet and moved lightly on the balls of his feet, always on the alert for any attack that might come from the rear. Hakenkrueze had him pegged as the Green Hornet's muscle, his enforcer, the one who ensured that the Hornet was obeyed. More important to Hakenkrueze, it suggested that the Hornet felt the need for protection. The chauffeur could be a difficult opponent, Hakenkrueze decided. A definite challenge to his own fighting skills, but not an unwanted one.   
  


But not yet, Hakenkrueze decided. Dealing with the chauffeur could come later, after he had dealt with his master, his primary target. The Green Hornet was a lot harder to read. Hakenkrueze folded his arms across his chest, absently chewing on a knuckle as he studied the masked man. The man was a complete mystery to him. He had grown up hearing stories about the legendary criminal, but how much was fact and how much was fiction, he had no idea.   
  


The Green Hornet was around six feet tall and broad shouldered in the dark green overcoat. However how much was tailoring or muscle Hakenkrueze couldn't tell. The squared shoulders of the long green coat effectively hid any sign of the bloating that he had come to associate with getting old. The dark green snap brim hat and molded plastic mask of the same color hid most of the man's features. All he could see in the dim light of the hallway was a wide thin mouth above a firm, square chin. There was no sign of softness, or weakness in that hard face, only grim determination.   
  


The Green Hornet as he led the way down the stairs was obviously as alert as the chauffeur, but in a far different way. The chauffeur was as taut as a tightly wound spring, ready to explode into action at any moment. The Green Hornet instead moved easily, relaxed, confident, without fear, just as a leader should be. This man was a professional, like any other jungle-hardened soldier. Except this man's jungle was made of concrete and steel.   
  


Hakenkrueze's eyes widened in admiration as he watched the Green Hornet again pull out the short black rod and telescope it to three times its original length. He smiled as the weapon hammered at the door until it gave way. "Such power," he said under his breath. "What I could do with a weapon like that."   
  


Greenwood grunted. "How would you propose to get it from him?"   
  


"Perhaps I will convince him to give it to me." Hakenkrueze signaled to a stone-faced man in a khaki uniform standing near the command center's door. "Karl, alert the other men. Tell them to go to the Hall of Heroes. We are going to have a little demonstration of the power of Aryan superiority tonight."   
  


"Do you wish the men to be armed, sir?" Karl asked.   
  


"No, that won't be necessary," Hakenkrueze said, and returned the snapped salute with equal precision.   
  


He turned again to the monitor. "Come my friends, come to the spider's web," he whispered.   
  
  
  


  
  


Hakenkrueze was pleased. The stage had been perfectly set. Behind him the rear wall was hidden by a huge blood red flag bearing the double-headed eagle, symbol of the APP. The double-headed eagle was repeated on the burnished silver sconces on each of the eight pillars that formed a double colonnade down the room. Each sconce held a large torch whose flickering flames caused shadows to dance along the dark edges of the huge hall, leaving doubts as to what might be watching unseen. The heavy, steadily shifting shadows also served to oppress the spirit, hushing it into awestruck silence, and, more importantly, obedience. Hakenkrueze smiled to himself. The light, the hall's magnificence would be more than enough to attract the curious. He knew the Green Hornet to be a curious man.   
  


"Gentlemen, so kind of you to come," he said to the two men who had entered the door that had been so invitingly open.   
  


"Anthony Hakenkrueze, I presume," the Green Hornet answered, covering Hakenkrueze with the gas gun.   
  


"And you are the legendary Green Hornet," Hakenkrueze replied. "I had heard that the reports of your death were not true, but I am surprised that you have chosen to break into this building."   
  


"I go wherever there is a chance for profit," the Green Hornet said.   
  


"Illegal profit, you mean," Hakenkrueze corrected.   
  


The Green Hornet shrugged carelessly. "Profit is profit. I don't care how it's made. It's just that some ventures, especially those on the wrong side of the law, are more profitable than others."   
  


"I'm afraid you have come to the wrong place, Hornet. There is nothing here that would interest your kind."   
  


"All this," the Green Hornet said, indicating the vast complex around them. "For an overrated sporting goods store? I find that hard to believe."   
  


"Oh, we deal in much more than sporting goods," Hakenkrueze explained, "Much more. We also specialize in security systems that are impossible to beat. For example, we knew about your illegal entry from the time the loading dock door was opened. All of our guards are given a special key code that sets off alarms in the security office. All the information you found in our computer system is useless."   
  


"And yet for a man who fancies himself to be so smart you did something very stupid," the Green Hornet said.   
  


"That we didn't summon the police? Hardly foolish." Hakenkrueze smiled wolfishly. "We prefer to handle all of our problems internally."   
  


"We shall see whether that was stupid or not, soon enough," the Green Hornet answered, unimpressed by Hakenkrueze's implied threat. "No, what was stupid was sending that letter to the Daily Sentinel saying that the newspaper deserved to be bombed. It was bad enough to send it on APP stationary, but to mail it before the blast happened. That was tantamount to claiming responsibility. Very, very stupid."   
  


"I know of no such letter," Hakenkrueze said angrily. "Besides what business is it of yours?"   
  


"I've made it my business, because your actions are interfering with mine," the Green Hornet said sharply. "The Feds and the local cops were nervous enough with that big conference coming to town. Now with that bombing and your campaign of hate it's becoming impossible for me to conduct my business."   
  


"We had nothing to do with that letter. Someone is trying to pin the blame on our organization."   
  


The Green Hornet shrugged unconcernedly. "That's not my problem. If the cops arrest you and there are no further attacks, they will be satisfied that they have the right man. Then I can go back to business as usual."   
  


"Business? Is that what you call the stranglehold you have on this city? You have everyone, the cops and the underworld, afraid of you. Afraid of your legend. I'll tell you right now, we aren't. The APP and our brother organizations are out to take this city, this country back for the people. To purify it of animals like you. The pimps, the drug dealers, the gangs, all of your kind are bleeding this country dry. We will make it safe for people to leave their doors unlocked at night. We will bring order and discipline to this country."   
  


"Save the speeches for the gullible," the Green Hornet sneered. "You and I know what the APP is really about. You spread hate and fear everywhere there are people who are unhappy and dissatisfied. You give them someone to blame for their own failures." The Green Hornet smiled tightly. "And it has been very profitable, hasn't it? All that security equipment, that survivalist stuff. It's not cheap. All that phony flag waving covers up the fact that you're in it for the same reason that I am. Money."   
  


"I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand our cause," Hakenkrueze said laconically. "But I can see that money is something you do understand. Tell me, how much is the reward for your capture these days?" Hakenkrueze made a slight motion with his hand and out from the shadowed margins of the hall stepped several men in black uniforms. On their right arms were white bands with the double-headed eagle on them.   
  


"I'm getting tired of this useless sparring with words. I suggest you surrender peaceably. Otherwise, my men will be forced to teach you a lesson about breaking and entering. Of course, they might forget themselves and then I would have to accept a lesser amount for your dead bodies."   
  


The Green Hornet and Kato moved back to back, unwilling to give up with a fight.   
  


"It's hopeless, Hornet. Even though my men are unarmed, their sheer numbers will be more than enough to drag you down to your defeat," warned Hakenkrueze.   
  


"I've heard that you took a lot of pride in being a master of the martial arts, but you're nothing more than a two-big thug," the Green Hornet said disdainfully. "You don't have the guts for hand to hand combat. Like every other coward I've met, you hide behind the numbers of your hired help."   
  


"Hold!" Hakenkrueze shouted, stopping his men in their tracks. "I'm no coward, Hornet," he hatefully bit out.   
  


Kato moved to face Hakenkrueze, eager to fight the Neo-Nazi. The APP leader growled at the Green Hornet, "Now who is hiding behind his hired help? You challenge me to combat, but you send out a racial inferior as your champion. This is between you and me, old man. Between the old order and the new."   
  


Hakenkrueze was pleased to see the disappointment, and dare he say, concern, in the oriental's eyes as the Green Hornet gestured for him to move aside.   
  


"You're right," the Green Hornet said. "This is just between you and me. But tell me. When you lose, will it remain that way, or will your boys finish the job you failed?"   
  


"My men will allow, nay, they will insist upon a fair fight. In the highly unlikelihood that you do win, you and your man will be free to leave. It is, after all, a matter of honor."   
  


The Green Hornet nodded his agreement and placed the gas gun back into the inner pocket of his coat. He walked to the center of the hall and made an elaborate bow toward Hakenkrueze. "Let's see who is truly the better man."   
  


Hakenkrueze removed his shirt with a flourish and then carelessly tossed it into the air, confident that one of his aides would rush to catch it before it touched the floor. He flexed his muscles, carefully, slowly, going through each muscle group like a professional body builder. He was as good as the Austrian Oak or the Hulk, but he had better things to do with his time, bigger ambitions than to become a mere actor. This would only be the beginning. It will be so easy, he thought. His victory over the Green Hornet was inevitable, but it would be more than the defeat of a mere man. He would be defeating a powerful legend. His name would go down history as the conqueror of the criminal mastermind that everyone had failed to touch. It would herald the beginning of a new Reich.   
  


"Are you done yet?" the Green Hornet said, bored. "Or are you planning on masturbating your ego for another hour."   
  


Hakenkrueze frowned, feeling the quick, hot flash of anger. He immediately forced it back down. He would not allow the Green Hornet to blind him with anger. With a slight smile he said, "Come now, Hornet. I was just getting in a little stretch. It isn't healthy, you know, to indulge in vigorous exercise without a little warming up beforehand. Please feel free to remove that restricting coat of yours and do likewise. It might improve your chances, or at least delay your defeat a little longer."   
  


"No thanks," the Green Hornet said. "I've managed against better than you just as I am." Behind the green mask the pale eyes narrowed. "So far all I've seen is a little tin soldier who thinks by showing off his muscles and blowing a lot of hot air, he'll change the world." He widened his stance, lifting his arms away from his sides, presenting an open target. "Why don't you show me, and your boys, what you can really do."   
  


Hitting his right fist into the open palm of his left hand, Hakenkrueze moved closer to the Green Hornet, intending to crowd him, to force him to take a step back. The Green Hornet remained stock still, rigid in his stance. Hakenkrueze flashed out in a rapid one, two combination toward the Green Hornet's unprotected belly. He felt the barest brush of fabric against his knuckles, and found the Green Hornet still standing, a few bare inches from where he had been.   
  


Hakenkrueze's eyes widened momentarily in surprise. He spun in a roundhouse kick, which the Green Hornet dodged, and recovered his surprise quickly enough to sweep down into a low kick that should have caught the Green Hornet across the ankles only to catch nothing. He growled under his breath. With monumental effort he swallowed the anger he felt rising in his throat. The Hornet was an old man, slow, he thought. That's how he must fight the Green Hornet, he thought. With speed. He flashed out in a rapid series of kicks and knife-edged karate chops. To his surprise, the Green Hornet expertly blocked and parried every blow until as though tiring of the game, the masked man cuffed him across the side of his head. Shaking his head from the force of the blow, Hakenkrueze stepped back, tasting the blood from his split lip. _Impossible_, he thought. He slammed a right cross only to find his fist encased in the masked man's hand. Face to face the two men stood, the Green Hornet's pale green eyes boring into Hakenkrueze's blue.   
  


"Is this the best you can do?" the Green Hornet hissed. "Are you really the best of the best?" he continued derisively. "If that's so, then you Aryan superman are just a bunch of yellow-bellied fakers parading around in opera costumes with no more backbone than a jellyfish."   
  


"No!" Hakenkrueze roared, trying to pull his hand free. Suddenly the Green Hornet released his hold as Hakenkrueze pulled backwards. Hakenkrueze stumbled, caught himself but not quickly enough. A rock hard fist sent him sliding across the slick floor.   
  


Hakenkrueze pulled himself up. He was breathing heavily, so was the Hornet, but the man should have been on his knees long before now. He should have been a breeze to beat. He gritted his teeth. It didn't make sense. The Hornet wasn't known for his martial arts skills. His man was, but not the Hornet. Then it struck him. Of course. The partner had to spar with someone, had to practice with somebody. That somebody was the Hornet. The Hornet had worked with a martial arts expert, was the martial arts expert's sparring partner. Of course he would know every defensive tactic, know every move and have the knowledge and strength to be able to protect himself and still provide more challenge than a mere dummy of wood or sawdust.   
  


This was going to be a lot harder than he had thought, Hakenkrueze decided. The Green Hornet could read every move he made, he almost knew what move Hakenkrueze would make even before he did himself. There was only one way. He knelt down, pretending to knead a calf muscle. His hand wrapped around the slender knife in the sheath hidden under his pants leg. He slung the knife at the Hornet, purposely missing the masked man, giving him the momentary breaking of concentration that he needed.   
  


He charged the Green Hornet, smashing him against a pillar. Slamming his fist repeatedly into the Green Hornet's stomach, he relished the man's grunts of pain. The Green Hornet slid bonelessly to the floor. Hakenkrueze swept his leg in to deliver a kick into the man's mid section, but an iron grip captured his leg and he landed with a jarring thud to the ground.   
  


Hakenkrueze quickly gathered himself and threw himself at the prone man. The Green Hornet's powerful legs caught him in the stomach, sending him to his knees, wheezing for breath. A right cross sent him all the way to the floor. Hakenkrueze rolled out of the Green Hornet's reach and felt his knife under his outstretched fingers. The Green Hornet stood over him, breathing hard, wiping blood away from the corner of his mouth. "Use it or lose it," he challenged.   
  


Blind with anger, Hakenkrueze rocketed to his feet intending to bury the knife all the way to his opponent's spine. At the last moment the Green Hornet stepped aside, catching the APP leader's outstretched arm, snapping his wrist numb, forcing the knife from his unfeeling fingers. The Green Hornet rammed him up against a pillar, making the torch above sway dangerously. His arm was pulled tightly behind as his back was bent almost double over the Green Hornet's knee.   
  


"So much for the master race," the Green Hornet gritted in his ear. "Do you yield?"   
  


Hakenkrueze, stunned and gasping painfully, nodded. The terrible pressure was eased. He turned around to face the masked man feeling a new respect for him. "I'm impressed," he said, offering his hand in friendship. "I could use a man like you. What do you say? Partners?"   
  


The Green Hornet ignored the offered hand disdainfully. "No."   
  


Without another word, he spun on his heel and headed for the door, the chauffeur close by his side.   
  


"Damn you!" Hakenkrueze screamed. He retrieved his knife from the floor and fired it at the Green Hornet's back.   
  


Kato leaped for the blade, hitting it aside, at the same time sending a dart into Hakenkrueze's shoulder. Instantly Hakenkrueze's men broke ranks and attacked the Green Hornet and Kato.   
  


Hakenkrueze crept for the back door. Against all odds, the masked men were making short work of his best men. He had to escape. He had to get more men. And guns. They had to have some guns.   
  


He turned around to find himself staring into the Green Hornet's emerald eyes. "Going so soon?"   
  


Hakenkrueze's eyes traveled down to see the long black rod pressed against his stomach. He had seen what it could do to steel doors and tried to swallow down the hard lump of fear in his throat.   
  


"Tell your men to back off," the Green Hornet demanded. Hakenkrueze hesitated. "Tell them!" the Green Hornet barked.   
  


"It's over!" Hakenkrueze shouted. "Let them leave."   
  


His men paused, unwilling to admit defeat. Hakenkrueze felt the pressure increase against his stomach. "Do as I say!" he ordered angrily. Finally his men stopped their attack and stood rigidly at attention.   
  


"We're leaving and you're coming with us," the Green Hornet said, pushing Hakenkrueze ahead of him, the rod never straying away from its target.   
  


  
  


The air was bitterly cold outside, but the shame of his defeat made Hakenkrueze burn with anger. "You have won this battle, but the war is far from over," he growled at the Green Hornet. "Next time it won't be so easy," he promised.   
  


Hearing the thin wail of a police siren coming steadily closer, he smiled, his hurts suddenly forgotten. "It looks like one of my men disobeyed orders and called the police. It's going to be over for you sooner than I thought."   
  


There was no one to hear him. The two men had slipped away into the darkness.   
  


  
  


"You think Mr. Hakenkrueze is on the up and up?" Officer Larry Ching asked his partner. "Do you think it really was the Green Hornet?"   
  


"He saw the man face to face," Sargent Robinson said as he opened his thermos. "Damn, it's cold tonight." Closing his eyes, the older officer savored the smell of the hot coffee as it steamed into the cold air. "You want some coffee?"   
  


Ching shook his head. "I still don't see how it could be. Sure word's out that the Hornet wasn't really dead, but what's he up to? What was he after at Red Knight?"   
  


"I have no idea. Maybe the guy was after some new 'toys'. Make another pass around the building and then we'll head back to the station." He took a long swallow from the battered metal thermos lid. "It's been a long night," he said wearily. Suddenly he snapped alert. "Hey Larry, run the number from that car ahead of us into the computer will you?" he said trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.   
  


"Sure. Why?" Ching said, punching the numbers in. "Looks like V194. Doesn't it?" he asked.   
  


Staring at the black car ahead of them, Robinson nodded absently.   
  


Ching frowned. "Looks like an old plate. Or do you think it might be an out of state plate, maybe a vanity?" he asked.   
  


"It's an old plate," Robinson replied very softly.   
  


"Huh?" Ching asked, wondering what had gotten into his partner.   
  


"I think that car's the Green Hornet's," Robinson said in shock.   
  


"Can't be . . . " Reading the printout, Ching's eyes widened in disbelief. "It is! My god, it is!" he said in surprise. 

"You better call for back up. And have them set up a road block just outside the park. If that guy hits the freeway, we'll never catch him," Robinson said, hastily screwing the cap back on his thermos.   
  


"Maybe we should make sure that's him first," Ching answered. "I don't want to get everybody excited over nothing."   
  


"Don't even think of it," Robinson said, "Better to be safe than sorry. Especially where the Green Hornet's concerned."   
  


Ching shrugged. "Okay," he said and began to make the call.   
  


The black car suddenly surged forward. Ching gunned the police unit after it. "Damn, he must have a police monitor."   
  


"Stay on his tail. Don't lose him," Robinson urged. "Our only chance is to keep him contained in the park. That rig's a lot bigger than ours. It can't possibly take the corners at the speeds we can."   
  


"Right," Ching answered tightly as his feet flew alternately from the gas pedal to the brake pedal, trying to keep the police car under control. He frowned when a disturbing thought hit him. "Uh, didn't I hear something about that car having rockets?" 

Robinson nodded, then madly clutched for his armrest as the force of a tight turn that despite the seat belt that was threatening to throttle and tear him in half at the same time nearly sent him into his partner's lap,. He gasped and flinched as the big black car swerved into a narrow passage between some buildings, barely missing the dark bulk of a dumpster.   
  


Ching swung the police unit in after the black car. He gritted his teeth, concentrating on the car ahead of him. It was barely visible in the dark except for the thin band of the tail lights on either side of its huge trunk. The car was so wide that he was surprised that sparks didn't mark its passage through the narrow space where a car was never meant to go. Never mind something that big.   
  


There was ice on the road, a lot of it, and he felt the tires under him more sliding than rolling. There was no room to maneuver, and no traction to speak of. If the car ahead of them suddenly stopped there would be no time, no room to avoid it.   
  


"What about those rockets?" Ching pressed his partner.   
  


"Just hope he doesn't think about them."   
  


Both men instinctively ducked as the black car struck a steel trash can, sending it flying into the air and landing with a loud crash on their trunk before clattering back to the ground.   
  


"Keep him moving, and turning around the corners so he can't get a good aim," Robinson suggested.   
  


"Thanks a heap," Ching gritted wryly. "How the Hell am I supposed to herd him? He's the one leading."   
  


The black car roared out into the open and the police car roared out behind it, nearly crashing into it as it slipped and slid out of control on a sheet of snow-covered ice. Ching wildly fought the barely in-control police car, desperately fighting down the impulse to stomp both feet onto the brakes. Barely inches away from T-boning the big car, he finally felt his tires grab dry pavement. At the same time, the black car's driver took advantage of his own car's wild gyrations, forcing it into an 180-degree turn, but not without nearly flipping it over.   
  


Swearing, Ching gunned his engine, trying to make a U-turn in the middle of the street. He succeeded only in plowing into a snowbank all the way up to the windshield.   
  


Robinson laid a hand on his young partner's shoulder. Pointing to a string of flashing red, white and blue lights that were fast disappearing around a corner, he said, "Maybe they'll have better luck."   
  


Ching grimaced. "I doubt it." A crooked smile appeared. "Since we're stuck here, how about a cup of your Java?"   
  
  
  


II   
  
  
  


As she dried her hair after her shower, Fatima stared out the large plate glass window into the night shrouded city. Several blocks away she could see the brightly lit dome of the Grand Hotel where the conference would be taking place. They were lucky to get a room as most hotels were filled with the conference attendees and the people who would be covering the conference and it's goings on. That was the advantage of being connected to the Reid family. The hotel's owner had insisted that they take the best room free of charge, saying that it was the least he could do in light of the tragedy at the Daily Sentinel. Who knows who he kicked out into the cold of the night.   
  


The night had started out clear but now was clouding up. She watched fascinated as large snowflakes danced lazily in the stray breezes that swept around and between the tall buildings surrounding their hotel. _It would take some getting used to_, she thought. She had been to major cities all around the world, but it seemed like it was always snowing in this city and when it wasn't snowing it was bitterly cold. It struck her as strange that it seemed to be warmer when the sky was cloudy then when it was clear. Ever since she arrived it's been cold. She wondered it she would ever get used to it. She wondered how she would be able to live the rest of her life in this cold, damp place where even when the sun shone it was not warm.   
  


She remembered when she had first met John at the Kaharan embassy. Her employers had thought it a good idea for her to cultivate a friendship with the young American. "Watch him," they had said, "He is the only son of an important American. Protect him," they said, "See that he does not come to harm."   
  


That proved more easily said than done since John had no fear when it came to covering events in the volatile Mideast. Whether it was covering a fire fight or asking questions that should not be asked he was always there, and so was she. It was good that he knew little Arabic so that she, the invisible, deferential woman, could reframe his incautious questions so that the people he interviewed did not slit his throat. Of course it helped that she had certain connections as did her employers so that the young Reid heir was kept safe despite his best efforts to get himself killed.   
  


In a way she admired his bold recklessness, but it was not until they were touring the ancient city of Petra that she fell in love with him. There among tombs cut from living rock of rose and ochre they had wandered away from the old bedouin who had assigned himself the job of make sure the two young people behaved themselves. It was cool in the shadows of the deep wadi that cut through the mercilessly hot desert above, in a few places water formed small pools surrounded by some small trees and grass. There John had talked of his homeland where trees were so thick that a city could be hidden beneath them. He spoke of vast lakes and sweet trickling streams. He told her about how life would reawaken after a winter's sleep with a profusion of flowers and how golden the autumns were when trees were ablaze with fiery leaves and even the air seemed to have a clear golden cast. It was not so much what he described that made her love him, but rather how much it mattered to him.   
  


He loved his homeland for its beauty and she loved him for that since most of the men she knew could only express their love of their homeland through blood and fire. Her employers were happy when she told them that John had proposed to her. She did not think they would approve, but they did saying, "You have earned this. Be a good wife to him and give him many sons and daughters."   
  


She sighed, she did love him, but could she ever love this land as much as he? Could she truly live in this foreign land for the rest of her life? Was this the feeling people called homesickness? Is this what he was feeling when they had visited that ancient city? Behind her she heard the soft click of the door being opened. Her first impulse was to seek protection, that there was danger. She controlled it. Here she was safe. Here her mission was peaceful. She watched John's reflection in the window. He did not think she had heard him, and had stopped to watch her. For a few moments he seemed to be unsure, wondering about her. Then his face softened into a loving smile.   
  


"I thought you would be in bed," he said.   
  


"I could not sleep. I wanted to wait up for you," she replied as she turned to face him.   
  


John wrapped his around her, nuzzling her neck, "You smell good," he murmured into her ear.   
  


She slid his coat off his shoulders and began working on loosening his tie, "Rough day?" she asked.   
  


"Yeah," he answered tiredly, "It's chaos at the Sentinel. I've been working with Dad all day at the Sentinel trying to get things straightened out. Hell, I've never seen so much damn paperwork in my whole life. Jeez, insurance forms, claims forms, police reports, you name it, we had to go through it."   
  


She loosened his collar and rubbed the muscles of his neck. "Forget about it tonight. Just rest," she said.   
  


He ran his hands under her terry cloth robe, caressing her naked body under it. Her lips met his hungrily as she unbuttoned his shirt.   
  


"You know you have the heat on awful high in here," he commented when he pulled away for a breath.   
  


"I like it warm. You don't have to wear so much clothes that way," she answered, dropping her robe to the floor.   
  


John smiled and drew the drapes across the window. "I see what you mean," he said, his eyes lighting in admiration.   
  


He came to her, making her his, running his hands over her body as she slipped his shirt from his broad shoulders and helped him remove the rest of his clothes until he stood as naked as she was. His body was warm against hers, hard where she was soft, and golden against her own olive complexion. She threaded her fingers through his blonde hair as his lips and tongue found the secret places that made her moan with pleasure. He was beautiful, she thought, broad shouldered and narrow hipped with hair the color of antique gold. Golden hair covered his strong arms and legs, wide chest and below so that nothing was hidden. _So this was joy_, she thought.   
  


  
  


Much later they rested together on the big king size bed, happily satiated. At least for the moment.   
  


"What's wrong?" Fatima asked, running her hands through the hair on John's sweat dampened chest.   
  


"Huh?"   
  


She rolled closer, nibbled on his earlobe, then repeated, "I said, 'What's wrong. You seemed to be miles away." She smiled, grabbing a handful of golden chest hair. "There better not be another woman," she warned, laughter in her voice.   
  


John rolled to face her, absently caressing her hand. "No, there's not another woman," he assured her. He kissed her lightly, tenderly. "There could never be another woman."   
  


"Then what's bothering you?" She frowned a moment in thought. "Is it your parents?"   
  


He sighed and nodded. "Yeah, I'm worried about Dad. After that explosion at the Sentinel and with Mom in the hospital and that conference coming up, he's been running everywhere, trying to take care of everything. It's enough to wear out somebody my age, never mind someone his age. I've tried to help out where I could, but I still think he's overextending himself."   
  


"Have you tried to get him to slow down?" she asked.   
  


"I've tried, but he won't listen to me." John rolled back onto his back, staring at the ceiling unhappily. "Unfortunately, that's not anything new. He rarely listens to me." He snorted wryly. "Did I ever tell you that he's a control freak? He always wants to do things his way. I wish he would just listen to me this one time. I don't like the way he's been looking lately. I've tried talking him into getting a room at a hotel downtown, but he insists on staying in Mom's hospital room and sleeping in that damn chair bed. He can't be getting enough sleep on that thing."   
  


"He's really worried about her," Fatima said thoughtfully. "He must love her a lot."   
  


"He does, but if he doesn't take care of himself he's going to wind up back in the hospital. He's no spring chicken."   
  


"Why don't you go to the hospital and see if he'll stay in our suite? There's plenty of room in the living room and the couch opens up into a double bed," Fatima suggested.   
  


"That's a great idea," John said, getting out of bed.   
  


"One thing . . . " Fatima began.   
  


"What's that?"   
  


"It's very cold outside, why don't you take an extra moment to warm up a bit?"   
  


John looked curiously at her for a moment, then his face broke into a broad grin as he got her message.   
  
  
  


  
  


John paced up and down the hospital hallway. He took a quick look into his mother's room. She was sleeping peacefully, but the open chairbed bedside her was still empty. He could have woken her up to find out where his father was, but he didn't want to disturb her, or worse, worry her unnecessarily. With a sigh of frustration, he eased the door closed, trying to decide what to do next.   
  


Again he went to the nurse's station. "When did my father say he was coming back?"   
  


The nurse looked up from the papers she was working on. "I'm sorry, he didn't say when he was coming back. As a matter of fact, I don't even remember him leaving" Frowning slightly, she thought for a moment. "I think he has been doing this for quite a few nights. I always thought it had something to do with his newspaper."   
  


"Yeah, maybe that's all it is," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Well, maybe I'll catch him tomorrow."   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


John shrugged more deeply into his down jacket as a cold blast of air and fluttering snowflakes caught him outside the hospital entrance. Hearing the soft crunch of tires on snow he looked up to see a big black car pull up across the street. The car stopped just short of the streetlight. Its headlights were dark, but he could see enough of its big shield-shaped grill and long low shape to know that it was not an ordinary car. A tall man dressed in a dark overcoat climbed out of the car and leaned over to speak to the driver.   
  


By some trick of the wind, John clearly heard the man's voice, his father's voice, John realized with a shock of recognition; instruct the driver to meet him at the townhouse the day after tomorrow.   
  


John went back into the hospital's foyer and waited, watching through the window as Britt crossed the street. Pretending to be just leaving, John reached for the door as Britt reached for it himself. "Oh, hi Dad. I was wondering where you were."   
  


Britt frowned. "You were? Why?" he asked as he slipped out of the overcoat.   
  


"Fatima and I were wondering if you would like to spend the night in our suite. There's plenty of room. You can't be getting enough rest in that chair in Mom's room," John said following Britt into the elevator.   
  


"That's really considerate of you, but I'm doing fine," Britt answered. "You shouldn't have waited for me."   
  


He seemed to John to be overly intent on studying the numbers above the door as the elevator went up to the right floor. "The nurse on duty thought you were coming back soon, so I figured I'd wait until you got back," he explained.   
  


"Sorry about that," Britt answered. "Something came up and I had to see someone," he said, not volunteering anything.   
  


"I see," John commented, wondering if he should ask about the black car. "Does it have anything to do with the bombing?"   
  


Britt leaned against the back wall of the elevator. "John, I'm beat. How about we talk about this tomorrow?" he suggested.   
  


John hesitated. With anyone else he would have pressed harder, pushing for a definite answer, but this was his father. He couldn't grill his own father. He'd already been through a lot and was clearly exhausted. Whatever he was doing, whatever he was involved in, he had his reasons for keeping it to himself. John would have to trust him. "Yeah Dad, tomorrow will be okay," he reluctantly answered.   
  


Britt nodded his agreement, but there was a worried look on his face that he could not completely hide from his son. That much was obvious, but to John everything else was as clear as mud. 


	3. The Conference

Chapter Three   
  
  
  


The Conference   
  
  
  


I   
  
  
  
  
  


Britt Reid unfolded the note that Jennie at the Daily Sentinel had given to him. It was from John and said that he wanted to see him as soon as possible. He had a good idea of what John might want to talk to him about, and it definitely had nothing to do with the wedding. It's not that he had been avoiding his son all day, it was just that there was one thing after another that demanded his attention.   
  


Now there was the unexpected phone call from Hamidi Nasser, a wealthy importer of fine rugs and tapestries and one of the leaders of the city's growing Muslim community. Nasser had not said why he wanted to see the publisher, but there were enough hints that the meeting was very important. Britt refolded the note. He'd already canceled the rest of the day's appointment, now he'd have to miss seeing John as well.   
  


  
  


"Mr. Reid," Hamidi Nasser said heartily, offering a slender hand heavy with diamond and gold rings. "I am so glad that you could make it on such short notice."   
  


Britt shook Nasser's hand. "I had to. After your phone call, I was intrigued."   
  


"Very good," the broadly smiling Egyptian said, leading Britt from his shop's showroom into a large room decorated with beautiful oriental rugs of red and gold. In the center of the room was a large low table surrounded with thick velvet cushions. "I don't think you will be disappointed. By the way, how is your lovely wife?"   
  


"She's doing fine," Britt answered, "She's home from the hospital now."   
  


"Good, good," Nasser beamed. "It was most unfortunate what happened. There have been incidents in our little community as well. Nothing like the bombing, praise Allah. Just fires that should not have happened, windows broken, racist graffiti on the walls. Perhaps you noticed where I painted over some on my own walls?" Britt nodded. "It's been so very random, we can't find who is responsible. It's been more a nuisance, really, nothing serious, it's just that some of our more timid people have become frightened," he explained.   
  


Britt frowned. "I didn't hear anything about this. Did you tell the police?" he asked.   
  


Nasser shook his head. "No. I wanted to, but the others wanted to keep it quiet. There is little trust of the police among our little group. They wanted to handle it themselves. Most think it is merely harmless vandalism done by some spoiled teenagers who have nothing better to do with their time."   
  


"But you don't agree," Britt stated.   
  


"Exactly," Nasser said, "Racist vandalism has always been a problem in communities like ours, but this is different, more widespread. I have spoken to others small communities like ours and they all talk of the same thing. I think there is a single group behind this and if it is not stopped it will only get worse."   
  


"Is that what this meeting is about?" Britt asked.   
  


"No, not today," Nasser said. "There is something more important to talk to you about." His dark eyes shone with pleasure at the publisher's puzzled look. "I have someone very special for you to meet," he said rubbing his hands in delight. "I would like to introduce you to Abdullah ibn Ubayy," he said as a slight man entered the room followed by a dark, somewhat taller young man.   
  


As leader of the Palestinian Freedom Front, Abdullah ibn Ubayy was a favorite interview subject whenever an Arabic opinion was needed on the frequent violent happenings of the Mideast. His small stature combined with an impressively huge nose and a perpetually stubbled weak chin made him a favorite subject for political cartoonists. The simple common soldier's appearance of a plain, unadorned olive drab uniform complemented with a traditional arab red-checked head cloth bound around his head by a simple black cord belied the power of the man branded as the most dangerous in the world.   
  


"Mr. Ibn Ubayy, it is an honor to meet you," Britt said.   
  


"More of a surprise than an honor, I would guess, Mr. Reid," Ibn Ubayy added for Britt, his broad smile revealing a mouthful of bad teeth.   
  


"Yes, it is," Britt admitted. "If I remember correctly, you weren't invited to the conference."   
  


"Indeed I wasn't. Your government unfortunately still holds a grudge against me and my organization for past excesses."   
  


"I'm not surprised about that, since among the many acts of terrorism your organization was responsible for was the hijacking and bombing of a plane load of American tourists," Britt remarked bluntly.   
  


Instead of disappearing, Ibn Ubayy's smile broadened. The young man who had entered with him took a threatening step forward. Ibn Ubayy raised a hand. "No need, Ibrahim. Mr. Reid is merely demonstrating a most admirable penchant for speaking his mind. I find it most refreshing after the constant evasiveness that I have been subjected to lately."   
  


"How did you get into the States and why are you here?" Britt asked.   
  


"I would rather not say how I came to be here. I may need that route again in the future. But it should be obvious that I came here because of the conference. My people must be truly represented, which they will not be by those lackeys selected by the U.N." Ibn Ubayy replied.   
  


"What do you want me to do?" Britt asked him.   
  


"Ever to the point, Mr. Reid. I am glad that you were recommended to me," Ibn Ubayy said, "but why don't we get comfortable first. We have much to discuss," he said leading Britt to the low table. "Hamidi, some coffee to moisten our parched throats and to keep our tongues supple."   
  


Britt frowned, but followed Ibn Ubayy's example by folding his long legs into a sitting position on top of one of the pillows.   
  


Ibn Ubayy noted Britt's slight difficulty with his left leg. "Perhaps we should bring in some chairs. I did not realize that you had a bad leg," he said apologetically.   
  


"Don't bother," Britt said, trying to get into a more comfortable position. "It's an old injury from a time when I was younger and more foolish," he explained, "It always acts up on cold days like this."   
  


"Yes," Ibn Ubayy agreed. "We old men must always pay for the carelessness of our youth. Perhaps if we had known about the pains of getting up in the morning, we would have been more careful." He looked up at the young man who had remained standing, and was obviously not included in the conversation. 

"But I seriously doubt it would have changed anything. Right?" he said, accepting the cup of thick black coffee offered by the rug merchant who quickly disappeared after giving another cup to the publisher.   
  


Britt took a sip of the strong Turkish coffee before answering. "I can think of some decisions that could have been made differently, but in the long run, I don't think things would have turned out differently."   
  


"Any regrets then?" Ibn Ubayy asked.   
  


"None," Britt answered. He looked pointedly at Ibn Ubayy. "Do you have any?" he asked.   
  


"Some," Ibn Ubayy admitted, glancing quickly up at his aide with a wry smile. "Although many of my people would like to believe that I am incapable of mistakes, there are things I would have done differently."   
  


"The acts of terrorism," Britt supplied.   
  


"We were fighting a war. We had to fight our oppressors any way that we could," Ibn Ubayy said defensively.   
  


"Including murdering children?" Britt demanded.   
  


"Our own children were dying," hissed Ibn Ubayy.   
  


"An eye for an eye," Britt calmly stated.   
  


"Yes, an eye for an eye," Ibn Ubayy said, glaring at Britt. Then with a visible effort he regained his composure. "Those were evil times, Mr. Reid. Many terrible things were done. On both sides," he said. "And with each new death, innocent or soldier, with each new outrage, things became worse, never better," he admitted tiredly.   
  


"Instead of freeing ourselves, we became the prisoners of the violence. No longer do we sing songs of peace and happiness. Now there is only hatred. Boys learn how to fire an AK-47 before they know their alphabet. That is if they ever learn it all. Their mothers and sisters think it a great thing when they die at Israeli hands, because they have become martyrs for the cause, for Allah," he said harshly. "Even women with babies in their arms have willingly set themselves up as targets for the sake of our cause."   
  


"Our cause," Ibn Ubayy snorted derisively. "What will if profit us if all of our young people are dead or maimed? It is not only the loss of lives, it is the loss of our souls that we have suffered."   
  


"That is why I need your help. You have a lot of influence, a lot of power, perhaps even more than you realize. And yet your reputation for honesty and fairness is beyond reproach. I want you to represent us at the conference."   
  


Britt looked doubtful. "I don't know. You're in the country illegally. How do I know that you aren't here to cause some kind of trouble, perhaps even to kill some of the delegates?"   
  


"I wouldn't be here with you if I had. I may be getting old, but I am not senile. You must believe me. This may be our one last chance for a fair and lasting peace. Think of all the lives you would be saving," Ibn Ubayy pressed.   
  


"But can I trust you?" Britt asked.   
  


Ibn Ubayy looked him in the eye. "What do your instincts tell you? Trust them."   
  


Britt studied Ibn Ubayy thoughtfully. He seemed to be sincere. His instincts told him to trust the man, and yet his history, the terrorism, the deaths he was responsible for. How could he?   
  


"Okay," he finally said. "I will represent your interests at the conference, but I will also see if I can get you recognized as a legitimate delegate. However, if I sense or get the slightest hint that you are not dealing with me honestly, I will make you sorry you were ever born," he warned.   
  


Ibn Ubayy's aide moved forward, his hand reaching for the pistol at his side. "Sir, I cannot allow this infidel to threaten you. We can do without his so-called help," he said angrily.   
  


"Ibrahim!" Ibn Ubayy shouted angrily. "Silence. I will tolerate no further outbursts. Do you understand?"   
  


The young man nodded his obedience, but his anger did not subside. "My only wish is to protect and serve you," he said humbly.   
  


"You will serve me best by holding your tongue," Ibn Ubayy said sharply. He turned to the publisher. "Please forgive the young fool's words. He is young and over zealous, like we both once were." He offered his hand. "Let us shake. I have understood your conditions and agree to be entirely truthful as long as you deal fairly with me."   
  


An agitated Hamidi burst into the room. "Mr. Reid, a bomb has been found at the Grand Hotel! A cameraman from your television station has been taken in for questioning."   
  
  
  


II   
  
  
  


Lee glumly watched Detective Morrisey pace in front of him while a Secret Service agent stood beside him at parade rest, his eyes as unreadable as if he still wore the mirrored sunglasses that peeked out of his breast pocket. Lee had refused to say anything until Britt Reid and a lawyer showed up, but it was easy enough to see that both men would have preferred to have questioned him without such legal pleasantries. Sometimes it's helpful to have friends in high places. Problem was, it was Britt Reid who had gotten him in this trouble in the first place.   
  


He should have known that the day was going to go badly. First, the past week of full days at the Daily Sentinel and full nights with the Green Hornet had finally taken its toll on him, and he had slept well past the buzzing of his alarm. Then James O'Leary wasn't ready when Lee had finally had come by with the DSTV newsvan to pick him up. Then they got lost.   
  


"Looks like we can't get there from here," Lee said disgustedly as they watched a backhoe carrying a load of ripped up asphalt cross in front of them. "Every road we take is full of construction."   
  


"Maybe if we take the next right," James O'Leary suggested.   
  


"We already did that," Lee said testily.   
  


"But I can see the building from here," O'Leary pressed. "It's to our right. You can see the glass dome from here."   
  


"We already went that way," Lee replied. "They're working on a water main there and if you remember, we had to keep on taking right turns until we're where we are now. If we turn right, that's what'll happen again."   
  


"What about the right after that?"   
  


"That's a one way street. Remember? We'll wind up going left any way."   
  


"But it doesn't make any sense to turn away from the building we're heading for."   
  


Lee gunned the newsvan through after the flag man moved to safety and slammed to a stop just beyond the construction site. "Okay, smart guy. Why don't you drive and figure out how to get there?"   
  


"Maybe we should park and carry the stuff over there," O'Leary suggested.   
  


"You want to carry all this stuff over there?" Lee asked, eyeing the photographer's pudgy frame. "I'm not going to carry it all," he warned.   
  


"We're running out of time. We're going to be the last ones there."   
  


"Well, why weren't you ready when I got there?" Lee demanded.   
  


"Didn't matter anyway. You were late," O'Leary replied heatedly.   
  


"All the more reason why you should've been ready," Lee snapped back. "And worse we had to go back for that damn gym bag of yours. What's so important for it anyway?"   
  


"It has some equipment I need," the redheaded photographer answered.   
  


"If it was so important, you should've had it ready when I got there."   
  


"I forgot. Okay?"   
  


Lee sighed tiredly. This wasn't turning out like Britt Reid wanted it to. "I'm sorry. I've been putting in some late nights working on something for Mr. Reid. I guess my temper's getting too short."   
  


O'Leary shrugged. "Yeah. I guess you're right. I should've been ready by the time you got to my place." He grinned slightly. "You know, if we're having so much trouble, I bet everybody else is having a hard time too. We probably won't be so late after all."   
  


"Yeah, maybe, "Lee said as he reluctantly pulled away from the curb, "We'll try it one more time. Then we'll walk."   
  


"Uh, Lee," James said hesitantly, after if finally seemed like they were on the right track. "Do you know anything about mind control?"   
  


"Mind control? What do you mean?" Lee asked, wondering what had brought on that odd question.   
  


"Well, it's just that Dr. Goode asked me to do some research in the Sentinel's morgue on subliminal messages being used for mind control. I found some stuff about a guy who used music with subliminal messages almost thirty years ago. It mentioned that Mr. Reid had something to do with it, so I was wondering if he ever told you anything about it, or since your father was his valet, if he ever mentioned anything."   
  


"I think my father did mention something about that. I think the guy brainwashed Mrs. Reid, she was Mr. Reid's secretary before they got married, into trying to kill him. My Dad stopped her just in time. Like you said, it was nearly thirty years ago. I don't know how anything about it that could help you."   
  


"Maybe you're right. I guess things were pretty primitive back then. With today's technology, it would be a lot easier to brainwash people with subliminal techniques."   
  


"Yeah. That's a scary thing to think about."   
  


James smiled oddly. "Yet, think about the possibilities for good that it could be used for. Imagine using it rehabilitate criminals or cure addicts. The possibilities for good are endless," he said eagerly.   
  


"So are the possibilities for misuse," Lee countered. "It would be a way for governments, or anybody else with the means, to make people do exactly what they want them to do. It could take people's wills away from them."   
  


"But society would be so much more peaceful and ordered. There'd be no dissent, no violence. People would be a lot safer in such a society. The lawbreakers could all be turned into useful citizens and all evil thoughts in the world would be eliminated. It would be heaven on earth."   
  


"Or Hell," Lee commented grimly. "Why did Dr. Goode want to know about mind control anyway?" he asked.   
  


James shrugged. "I don't know, he didn't tell me." He was silent for a moment. He brightened. "How would you like to come with me to one of the services at the Kingdom of Divine Love?"   
  


_Just what Mr. Reid had wanted_, Lee thought. "Yeah, sure, I'd like to. I've been wondering what it was all about."   
  


"Great!" James said. "How about I call you later with the time and where we can meet."   
  


"Sounds good to me," Lee answered. "Look, there's the hotel, and I think I can actually see a parking space."   
  


  
  
  
  


"God damn it!" Lee swore as a long strip on paint was scraped from the van's side. "This space isn't large enough for a Yugo, never mind this van."   
  


"You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain," James said disapprovingly. "Instead you should praise Him for the fact that we found anything at all."   
  


"Sorry," Lee said. "I just wish He had arranged for something a little wider. Doyle's going to kill me when he sees this."   
  


He tried opening his door. "How in the world am I going to get out of here."   
  


"No problem, you can get out the back," James said. "There's lots of room behind us."   
  


With James' help, Lee scrambled into the rear of the van. He helped the photographer don his equipment and hefted the rest of the camera gear out of the van. With a groan, he recognized Ed Lowrey standing there watching them. "Uh, hi, Lowrey. What're you doing here?" he asked.   
  


"Dunigan sent me here to cover the audience reaction to the delegates' arrival," he explained. "You guys are little late, aren't you?" he commented casually. "Did you get up late or something?" he asked knowingly, aware of Lee's nighttime excursions with Britt Reid.   
  


"We both got up late and then we got lost," James said helpfully.   
  


"There was a lot of traffic on the road too," Lee said, trying to save face in front of the lanky reporter. "Some idiot in front of us wiped out on a patch of ice. It tied up traffic and we had to find another way over here."   
  


"Yeah, ice can be damn dangerous if you don't know what you're doing. Especially at night." Lowrey added.   
  


James' brow furrowed, wondering what the reporter was hinting at.   
  


"Uh, James, why don't you go on ahead?" Lee suggested. "I'll get the rest of the stuff and catch up with you as soon as I can."   
  


"Sure," James said, "Hand me that gym bag, will you?"   
  


"Okay, especially since we had to go back for it," Lee said, handing the bag over. 

Behind O'Leary's retreating back, Lee hissed at the reporter, "What're you trying to do? Can't we trust you to keep your trap shut about the Green Hornet?"   
  


Lowrey ran a hand through his thinning blonde hair. He grinned innocently. "Hey, back off, Kid. I didn't mean anything."   
  


"Don't call me 'Kid'," Lee growled, angrily slamming the van's rear door closed.   
  


Lowrey shrugged off Lee's anger. "I heard you guys had a narrow escape."   
  


Lee glared. "As you can see we got out just fine."   
  


"The Boss looks like he had a rough time of it though. Why didn't you give him a hand?"   
  


"Why don't you ask him?"   
  


"No thanks. I'd like to live a while longer, if you don't mind. By the way, did you find anything out at Red Knight?"   
  


"That's something else you ought to ask Mr. Reid about."   
  


"I tried. He won't tell me a thing."   
  


"Not my problem," Lee commented.   
  


"Your coming here with O'Leary got anything to do with last night?" Lowrey pressed.   
  


"That's for me to know and for you to find out," Lee answered. "Look, I got a lot to do and you're not helping any." He shouldered his equipment. "I got to catch up with James. I hope I don't see you later."   
  


"Don't count on it, Kid," Lowrey replied under his breath as Lee quickly trotted away. He raised his voice, "Hey, Kid, be careful if O'Leary invites you to his church. I hear they don't take prisoners."   
  


  
  


Lee trotted hurriedly to the hotel's service entrance. Lowrey's unwelcome interruption had cost him a lot of time. He hoped that somehow he would be able to catch up with the redheaded photographer and get set up before the delegates arrived.   
  


"Damn," he swore when the door refused to open. He pulled harder and still the door wouldn't budge. Slamming on the door, he shouted, "Hey, somebody! Open up! The door's locked!"   
  


He paced in front of the door a few minutes, hoping that somebody had heard him. Time was passing away far too quickly. He shot a quick glance at his watch. He was going to be late and in a lot of trouble if he didn't get inside soon. He swore again, and kicked the door one final time. "Damn, damn, damn," he chanted under his breath. He would have to try the front door.   
  


A large crowd of sightseers and curiosity seekers made it nearly impossible to reach the doors. Lee noticed Lowrey working the crowd and quickly turned away before the reporter could spot him. People grumbled and shot dirty looks at him as he shoved his way through, trying to keep a hold on his equipment and trying to stop it from hitting anyone. Most of the time he wasn't successful, earning dirty looks and muttered curses as people wondered aloud who he thought he was. He considered himself lucky that everyone was too intent on keeping their spot in the crowd to take a swing at him. Britt Reid would've killed him if he was caught getting into a fight on an assignment.   
  


An over-coated guard with an earphone jack in his ear and mirrored sunglasses eyed Lee's press card skeptically. "You say you're with the Daily Sentinel?"   
  


Lee nodded breathlessly, shifting his equipment to a more comfortable position on his shoulder. He was disturbed by seeing his own reflection wavering in the man's sunglasses.   
  


"Why didn't you use the back door?" the man demanded suspiciously.   
  


"It was locked," Lee answered, wishing he could read the man's expression behind those sunglasses.   
  


The man signaled to one of his partners. "You can buy these things in any mail order catalog," he growled, flipping Lee's press card back to him. "Show me your driver's license."   
  


"Anything you say," Lee said, pulling out his wallet and opening it to show his driver's license. "The picture's not too good, but that's me, all right," he commented, forcing a smile despite the seething anger he felt inside.   
  


The two men glared down at him, silently examining his license far too long for his liking. "C'mon, I got work to do. Give me a break. Okay?" The sharp edge of desperation was starting to creep into his voice.   
  


The second man took Lee's license from the first man. He examined it even more closely. "Your address is from out of town. The Daily Sentinel's a local paper," he said suspiciously.   
  


"I moved here a few months ago. I haven't gotten around to changing my license," Lee answered. Behind him he could hear the wail of the approaching police escort of the dignitaries.   
  


"C'mon, man, I got to get going," Lee pleaded, silently thinking, _Why don't you go hassle somebody else?_   
  


The guard gave his license one more close look. "Get it updated, Mr. Lee," he growled as he returned it. He muttered to his partner, "I don't like guys who have only one name. It's like they think they're some kind of celebrity or something."   
  


"Thanks," Lee said, placing his wallet into his hip pocket, adding under his breath, "For nothin'."   
  


The guard looked down at him sharply, and Lee forced a weak grin as he squeezed past the two men who made no move to get out of the way.   
  


Lee looked at the vast marble-lined lobby in confusion. All of the clerk positions stood empty and there was no one around to direct him to the room where the press conference was going to be held. He wandered to where the lobby opened into a large atrium filled with tropical trees and a five story tall water fall that tumbled down into a crystal pool filled with speckled Koi and floating red-ribboned poinsettias. Three broad, thickly carpeted hallways led off from the atrium.   
  


Lee looked for a sign, something, anything that would point him in the right direction. "Great," Lee said to himself, "What am I going to do now?"   
  


He heard someone whistling from behind the mirrored bar in a sunken alcove filled with small tables and red upholstered chairs. He walked over to the bar and looked behind it. "Uh, excuse me," he said to the young woman busily adjusting something under the counter, "Can you help me?"   
  


The girl stood up, quickly smoothing the wrinkled grey jumpsuit and absently brushing at a strand of dark hair that had escaped from the long ponytail that cascaded down the length of her back. "I'll try," she said.   
  


Lee smiled engagingly. "I'm kind of lost. Do you know where the Van Gogh room is?" he asked.   
  


"Van Gogh?" she repeated, straight brows knitting in thought. "Sure," she brightened into a broad grin. "Take the north corridor and it's the third, fourth and fifth doors on the right."   
  


"Uh, north . . . " Lee began trying to remember which direction north would be.   
  


"That one," she said, pointing to the center hallway.   
  


"Thanks. By the way what's your name?" he asked.   
  


"Lisa. What's yours?"   
  


"Lee."   
  


Her smile grew broader. "Lisa and Lee. That kind of goes together." Lee nodded. "I'll be done around six," she added.   
  


"You like pizza?" he asked.   
  


"Love it. Doozie's down a block from here makes a great veggie special," she suggested.   
  


"I'll see you at six then," Lee answered, thinking that perhaps things were going to work out after all. Then he remembered what he was doing there in the first place. After a quick wave he trotted down the hallway that Lisa had pointed out.   
  


Just within sight of the Van Gogh room he noticed under a tall vase of white and gold flowers a box wrapped in gold foil wrapping paper decorated with angels. That was an odd place to put a present, Lee thought. Too odd. He was running late, but a feeling told him that something was very wrong.   
  


  
  


Coming back to the present, Lee checked his watch. It looked like he was going to miss that date after all. "Look, Morrisey," he said to the detective, "I found the box, but I wasn't the one who put it there. You should be calling me a hero instead of treating me like a criminal."   
  


The secret service man turned on him. "How do we know that it wasn't a publicity stunt for your newspaper?" he demanded angrily.   
  


"Sir," said a familiar voice that had enough authority in it to send the secret service man bolt upright. "If you have any accusations against my newspaper or my staff, I suggest you bring them directly to me."   
  


"Mr. Reid, boy am I glad to see you," Lee said as the tall publisher faced the secret service man and Detective Morrisey.   
  


"For beginners, gentlemen," Britt said, taking control of the situation. "How about telling me what happened and why are you holding this man," Britt said, hitching a hip onto a desk, expectantly waiting to hear what had happened.   
  


After Lee had told his story, Detective Morrisey added, "The box was given to the bomb squad. They found a bomb in it with a timer set to go off in about half an hour."   
  


"So if it hadn't for my man finding it, people might have been hurt, or killed." Britt said.   
  


"Yeah," Morrisey admitted reluctantly.   
  


"Then why are you holding him?" the publisher asked.   
  


"We have to explore all possibilities," the secret service man said.   
  


"Including the idea that my paper would stoop so low as to plant a bomb as some sort of sick publicity stunt?"   
  


Morrisey glared at the secret service man. It was obvious that the idea wasn't his. The secret service man repeated, "All possibilities have to be explored."   
  


"I see," Britt said. "Do you have any proof of the Daily Sentinel's involvement?" he asked.   
  


"No," the secret service man said.   
  


"And none concerning my man's involvement outside of finding the thing?"   
  


"Right."   
  


"Is there any reason to hold him any further?"   
  


"No . . . "   
  


"Except," Morrisey chimed in, "We would like to see him downtown later to sign a statement."   
  


"That can be done," Britt agreed.   
  


"And it's not a good idea for him to leave town," Morrisey warned.   
  


"I am sure Lee has no intention of doing so." Britt said firmly. "I take it that he is free to go."   
  


"Yes," Morrisey said.   
  


The secret service man opened his mouth to say something, but decided to go along with the local cop. He made a mental note though, to keep an eye on the young man. He was still sure he was tied in somehow.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


III   
  
  
  


The smell of fresh coffee brewing and baking bread roused Casey from a deep sleep. "Who in the world is making breakfast?" she thought. Britt had earlier mentioned something about them going out to the House of Pancakes after she had gotten up. "Had he changed his mind?" she wondered. But who was baking the bread? Coffee was about the limit of Britt's culinary skills. Perhaps it was Fatima, she thought remembering that John and Fatima were planning on coming over in the morning. She threw on the robe that had been draped over the edge of the bed the night before.   
  


"Danielle!" she said in surprise, spotting her dark-haired daughter standing at the stove scrambling up some eggs. "What in the world are you doing here?"   
  


"Hi, Mom," Danielle answered as she quickly tossed a small carton into the trash. "I didn't mean to wake you up," she said, giving her mother a quick kiss and a hug. "I figured that since I had finished all my finals, there wasn't any reason to hang around any longer than I had to."   
  


"Did you drive all the way here?" Casey asked.   
  


Danielle nodded.   
  


"That's an awful long distance to drive by yourself," Casey said. "Or were you all by yourself?" she asked.   
  


"Now, Mom. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And yes, I drove here all by myself. Just because John is getting ready to tie the knot, doesn't mean that I have anything like that in mind," Danielle pointed out.   
  


Casey smiled. "I'm sorry Danielle. I didn't mean to pry. I guess it's a mother's curiosity. You know, with all this talk of love and marriage in the air, one never knows," she said. 

She took a deep whiff of the cooking food. "Eggs, bacon, muffins. All of your father's favorites." Picking up a package, she read its label, "Non fat, soy vegetable breakfast strips . . . " Her forehead creased in puzzlement. She picked up another package. "No cholesterol egg substitute. Dani . . . " she began.   
  


"Dad'll never know the difference," Danielle said as she retrieved the packages from her mother's hands and pushed them deep into the trash can. "As long as we don't tell him," she added with a conspiratorial wink.   
  


Casey shook her head, her eyes twinkling in amusement. "I have a feeling that you're trying to change your parents' diet," she said.   
  


"I'm just concerned, that's all. I want you and Dad to be around a long time. I wanted to show you how these kinds of food can make perfectly good substitutions."   
  


"As long as you don't tell anybody," Casey reminded her.   
  


Danielle shrugged. "Well, at least until after you've eaten," she said.   
  


Opening the oven door, Casey sniffed at the baking muffins. "Are these 'healthy' too?" she asked.   
  


"Uh huh," Danielle answered as she cut some fresh chives into the bubbling eggs and then mixed them in with a spatula. "They're whole wheat with oat bran, wheat germ, sunflower seeds, dates, apples, raisins and a touch of wild clover honey for sweetness," she explained.   
  


"Honey?" Casey said, "my, my. We're being extravagant with our calories, aren't we?"   
  


"Honey's perfectly good for you," Danielle retorted. "Much better than white sugar. In small amounts, of course."   
  


"Of course," Casey echoed in mock seriousness. "One mustn't go overboard," she added.   
  


"Oh, Mom," Danielle said, "You know what I mean."   
  


Casey smiled lovingly. "I do, sweetheart, and I am so happy to have you home again," she said, giving her daughter another big hug. "I can't wait until you see John and his fiancee, Fatima. She's such a lovely girl. I think she and John will make a wonderful pair."   
  


"Gossiping about us already, Mom?" John interjected, poking a sweat-covered face into the kitchen.   
  


"Hardly even had a chance to get started," Casey said.   
  


John walked into the kitchen and gave his sister a bear hug. "How's it going, Sis?" He sniffed at the food cooking on the stove. "Smells good. I'm starved. When're we going to eat?" he asked.   
  


"As soon as you set the table," Danielle answered, placing a stack of plates in his hands.   
  


John counted the plates. "You need one more," he said.   
  


"Oh? Who did I forget? There's five of us, isn't there?" she asked.   
  


"There's one more," Britt said, coming into the kitchen. "This is Lee. He's the son of an old friend of mine. I'm showing him the ropes at the Sentinel."   
  


Danielle smiled at Lee, intensely aware of the way he was looking at her. Son of a family friend or not, what he had in mind was certainly not mere friendship. The problem was she could not decide whether she liked that or not. Covering her embarrassment, she reached for some coffee cups up in a cabinet near the stove. "Why don't you help John set the table with these cups?" she said.   
  


"I'd be glad to," Lee said, his hand momentarily touching her as he took a cup from her hand. "Anything for a beautiful woman," he added, his burning coal black eyes gazing deeply into her clear emerald eyes.   
  


"C'mon Lee, quit flirting. We got our marching orders," John said, teasingly breaking up the electric moment. "Besides it's time to eat."   
  


"Yeah, I know," Lee responded, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from Danielle. "And you're starving," he said, following John and his mother into the dining room with the coffee cups in his hands.   
  


Giving Danielle a hug and a peck on the forehead, Britt said, "Good to see you, Baby. How do you think you did on the finals?"   
  


"Pretty good," she answered. "I'll be glad when it's all over."   
  


"It's not too much longer. About another year, isn't it?" Britt asked.   
  


"About," Danielle answered. "I've already gotten some job offers."   
  


"Any of them look promising?"   
  


Danielle shrugged. "Not really. Mostly corporate stuff and I'm not interested in that. I'm looking into some kind of legal aid work. I want to help people."   
  


"Not much money in that line of work," Britt told her.   
  


"I know, but I'm not that interested in making a lot of money. Besides you've done well helping people." 

"Could've done better, or at least that what some of the other publishers have told me," Britt said.   
  


"But would you have liked it as much?" she asked.   
  


"Not one bit," Britt said. He smiled. "Even though you chose not to go into the newspaper business, you're still a crusader at heart. Just like your brother."   
  


"And my old man," she reminded him.   
  


Danielle grabbed a bowl and began spooning the hot eggs into it. "I think we better get the rest of the food out before John comes in after it," she said, handing the bowl to her father.   
  


She laughed. "I thought I would be waking everybody up, and here it looks like you have all been up for hours," she commented as she popped the muffins into a bun warmer.   
  


"Basically, it's the boys and I who have been up since about six. We let Casey and Fatima sleep in."   
  


"Why in the world were you up so early on a weekend morning?"   
  


"Lee's something of a martial arts expert. He learned it almost before he could walk, and John asked to show him some of his techniques."   
  


"It sounds like they're getting along really well," Danielle said.   
  


"Yeah, they act like they've known each other for years instead of just a few days. Watching them work out together reminds me a lot of the way Lee's father and I used to be."   
  


"Lee's father . . . " Danielle said thoughtfully. "Wasn't he the one who left when you were in the hospital after a gang had tried to kill you?" she said more harshly than she had meant to. "I thought you were still angry about it."   
  


"I was wrong," Britt admitted gently. "I think I was a lot angrier at myself, then I was at him. If it hadn't been for Lee's father, I would've died. I realize now that he left because he felt responsible for what had happened and couldn't bear to face me again. I was stupid to be angry at him for so long, especially since he died before we ever had the chance to make up. " He looked seriously at her. "What happened wasn't Kato's fault. If it was anyone's fault, it was mine. I pursued a story too far, and didn't have the sense to back away before it was too late. I don't want you to blame Lee for what happened between his father and me. That was a long time ago. He's a fine young man."   
  


"I wouldn't blame him," Danielle retorted. "Besides, it looks like John hasn't let that affect their friendship."   
  


"John doesn't get angry very easily, and when he does it's over quickly. He's not one to hold grudges." He looked at her meaningfully. "You do, young lady."   
  


"Well . . . " Danielle said, trying to slide away from her father's sure knowledge of her quick temper.   
  


"Dani, a grudge can ruin a person's life," he advised her.   
  


"Have you ever held a grudge?" she asked defensively.   
  


"Yes, I have. It was a long time ago," Britt said without explanation. The look in his pale eyes was so chilling that Danielle fervently hoped that whatever it had been about would stay safely in the past.   
  


Casey came bustling in, hunting for the forks and knives. "Hurry up, you two. Everybody's waiting for you."   
  


She grabbed the bowl of eggs from Britt's hands. "Everything will be cold before you two sit down. She laughed lightly. "That is if John and Lee don't inhale it first."   
  


  
  


The food quickly disappeared from the table just as Casey had predicted and Danielle felt the warm glow of success. Even after the true nature of many of the ingredients had been revealed, everyone had pronounced everything as delicious. Everyone except for John who had promptly begun going into an overly exaggerated act of gagging on his food, even though nothing had stayed on his plate more than a minute. His theatrics stopped with such suddenness that Danielle was left wondering who had kicked him under the table. Both of her parents had maintained a studiously innocent look on their faces. Lee however, had a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that placed him at the top of her suspects.   
  


_A gentlemanly rescue of a lady's honor?_ she wondered. She couldn't quite decide whether she like that young man yet. He wasn't half bad looking. The dark, straight hair, flashing black eyes and high cheek bones that bespoke his oriental heritage, made him lot more interesting than many of the men she had dated the last few years, but he was something of a cipher. She couldn't quite figure out where he stood in the scheme of things. Was it only in sake of the memory of an old friend, or was there something else?   
  


She glanced over at her father who was engaged in a conversation with her brother. There was such a combination of differences between the two men. It was like comparing the moon and the sun. Britt was silver-haired and deeply tanned with aqua-grey eyes as changeable as the sky; pale blue one moment, green another, even grey at other times. Often she could tell what mood he was in by the color of his eyes.   
  


John on the other hand was golden haired and although he was always out in the sun, his fair complexion would never be as dark as his father's. Always seeming to have a sunny disposition, his eyes nevertheless were as grey as a stormy sky. Like her father had pointed out, John's rare flashes into anger were as rare as summer storms and over just as quickly.   
  


Despite the surface differences the two men were obviously father and son, with the same broad, high brow, narrow flaring nostrils and strong square jaw. Even the way they moved and gestured was very much alike. 

Beyond the surface similarities ran a current of moodiness through both father and son. She knew how her grandfather had died and she could guess how it had affected her father. And John. She wondered at times what he had seen as a foreign correspondent for the Daily Sentinel. Things that he had seen that he chose never to talk about. Her father and brother were dedicated to the Daily Sentinel far more than she could ever be. To them it was more than a business, it was a cause.   
  


She had lived with that cause all her life. Sometimes she was jealous of her father's dedication to the paper. She knew her mother considered it her father's second wife. Or first, since he was involved with the Sentinel long before he had ever met her. Danielle had always accepted the Sentinel's place in their lives, because it had always been there, and because she was a Reid.   
  


However now, she felt that something new had come into her father's life. Seeing him with her brother, there seemed to be something very different about him. Something she had never seen before. It was like a fire that had been banked for a very long time had finally flared back to life. His step was surer, lighter and the long familiar limp was almost undetectable. He seemed fitter, stronger than she had ever seen him, like he was an entirely new man. She almost suspected that he had taken on a mistress, but she quickly dismissed the thought. Her parents were still obviously very much in love. Or at least she fervently hoped so.   
  


Tearing herself away from such unhappy thoughts, Danielle glanced over at John's fiancee. Fatima was as much a cipher as Lee. She had strong Semitic features, olive complected with large eyes of an extraordinary golden hue, a strong arched nose, and heavy sensuous lips. There was nothing delicate about the woman, even her figure was of an old-fashioned lushness, heavy breasted, and broad-hipped with a small waist. Her thick dark hair had golden-olive highlights and fell down her back in tight waves that many women paid a fortune to duplicate.   
  


She was beautiful, but she was definitely not like any of the other girls John had dated in the past. The first ones had been daughters from the city's best families, debutantes with the best of everything; the best clothes, the best cars, anything that Daddy could buy, including hair, face and body. What they lacked at birth, Daddy's checkbook provided.   
  


His later conquests had been somewhat different; long-legged thoroughbreds that jogged several miles before a breakfast of granola and yogurt. Some of them had even been Danielle's friends, but somehow after they met John, their friendships quickly dissolved. She couldn't ever figure out why, except perhaps they always figured that they would be the one John would finally settle down with.   
  


With a shock, Danielle noticed that Fatima was studying her as closely as she was examining her. Embarrassed, she studied the empty plate in front of her. Did Fatima see her as a rival or a supporter?   
  


"Dani?" Casey said, breaking into her thoughts. "I was wondering if you would like to go with your father to the reception party tonight for the conference's delegates."   
  


Danielle frowned worriedly. "Is there anything wrong? Aren't you feeling okay?" she asked.   
  


Casey smiled reassuringly. "No, it's just that those things always seem to last forever. I'm not quite up for a long evening yet," she explained.   
  


"I'd be glad to," Danielle said.   
  
  
  
  
  


IV 

  
  


Everyone who was someone was at the glittering party held for the opening of the peace conference. Every country on Embassy Row was represented, with graceful Sari-clad women from India mingling with tall, dark women dressed in bright African tribal robes. Alongside the colorful national costumes vied the latest in Parisian fashions worn by women from every nation and of every shape and color.   
  


Not to be outdone by the foreign contingent, every city, state and national official who had the time and were able to wrangle an invitation, were there as well. All of them were as brightly arrayed; precious gems, expensive furs, and the most pricey haute-couture, whether it was proudly pro-American or up-to-the-minute European.   
  


Contrasting with the showy throng, high up on the balcony overlooking the grand foyer, watched the more conservative Arab delegates' wives, faceless and formless in long black chadors.   
  


Danielle, because of her youth and beauty, turned more than her share of heads. She smiled to herself, noticing how often a bejeweled wife would nudge her husband's ribs as she passed, her arm in her father's. Perhaps a few knew she was his daughter, but others would find that difficult to believe, more readily believing she was his latest conquest. She didn't care to change their minds, it kept some of the more bolder young men away from her.   
  


Britt helped her remove the emerald satin cape that matched the gown that flowed over her slender figure like a second skin. His eyebrows rose in surprise. "Being a little daring, aren't we?" he asked.   
  


Although Danielle's gown had a high neck and long sleeves in deference to the conservatives sensitivities, it was entirely backless, ending just above the swell of her hips in a large bright red bow.   
  


Danielle smiled sweetly. "It was the only thing I had with me."   
  


"You could've borrowed something of your mother's." Britt commented.   
  


"Why?" she said innocently.   
  


"You know perfectly well 'why', young lady," Britt answered sharply.   
  


"I don't like being told by a bunch of dried-up old woman-haters how to dress. They don't have the right to dictate to me how I will dress. This is America and I am an American woman. I don't like people from another country telling me what to do in my own country," she answered with a tight smile.   
  


"Even at the cost of embarrassing me and insulting them?" Britt answered.   
  


Danielle reddened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you. It's just that their attitude about women make me angry. I wanted to make a point," she explained. "Do you want me to put the cape back on?"   
  


Britt shook his head. "Forget it," he said, "If you didn't do things your own way, I'd probably wonder if you were really my daughter."   
  


"Nice dress, Sis," came John's voice from behind them. "Who are you planning to unwrap you?" he asked, referring to the large bow. "Anybody I know?"   
  


"Never you mind, John," Danielle answered sharply, still stinging from her father's rebuke. "I've already gotten enough flak about this dress."   
  


"I don't see why you should," John answered. "You certainly brightened a lot of guy's night with that dress. Although I think I saw a bunch of those old geezers with the long beards and cloaks have heart attacks when Dad took off your cape."   
  


"Never mind him, Danielle," interrupted Fatima before Danielle could reply to her brother. "I think that dress is just lovely. The green brings out the color of your eyes beautifully. I bet every woman here wishes that she had the figure to wear a dress like that as well as you do."   
  


"Thank you," Danielle answered. "I think your dress is lovely too. Is it all handmade?"   
  


"Yes, it is," Fatima said, smoothing the dress' ivory folds. "This is a traditional Palestinian dress. There is a craftswoman's guild in Kahara City that made this dress from the weaving of the material to the addition of the sateen appliques and embroidery. Traditional craft work like this is the main source of income for most of the women in the guild since many of them are widows or their men can't find enough work to feed their families," she explained. "I've been working with them, trying to get their work into foreign markets."   
  


"I love your dress," Danielle said. "Maybe I can help you out. I know a few of the boutique owners here who would love to carry clothes like that. I am surprised though that Arab actually wear dresses like that."   
  


Fatima smiled. "Too many people in the West don't really understand the Arab peoples, and yet, there are so many differences between the different Arab countries, never mind the differences in the different Muslim groups such as the Sunni and the Shii. We are subjected to so many stereotypes. Many years ago, Westerners thought that all Arab women dressed like harem slave girls. Now they think we are all like them," she said nodding to the black-garbed women on the balcony above them. "Even then appearances can be deceiving. Most Arabic city women are very fashion conscious. Under those dresses you will find the latest fashion and expert makeup," she explained. "I know some of them personally. Would you like to meet them later?" she asked.   
  


"I'd like that," Danielle said, "I think it would be interesting to find out how they feel about living like they do. I don't think I could live like that having no voice in how I live my life, where men control every aspect of it. It sounds so restrictive."   
  


"If that was all that you ever knew, you wouldn't think such a life was hard," Fatima said. "Many of these women love their lives. Like you, they couldn't imagine any other way of life. They can't bear thinking about living like Western women do."   
  


"I don't understand," Danielle said.   
  


"Most Muslim women are protected and held in high esteem. They are very well taken care of. Their lives are secure, well ordered and without worry. Whether it's by their father, brothers or sons, they are always protected. The idea of having to go out on their own like an American woman is very frightening. They think American men are lazy because they don't take care of their families without their women's help," Fatima explained.   
  


Danielle shook her head. "So for the sake of security, their freedom is sacrificed."   
  


"Is that not the choice we face every day?" Fatima asked.   
  


"You've seen both sides, Fatima," Danielle asked, "Which do you prefer?"   
  


Fatima gently smiled, nodding toward John who was engaged in conversation with another man, "I think it is quite obvious what choice I have made. I'd rather have freedom with some insecurity, than have someone else make all my decisions for me."   
  


John came over to the two women as dinner was announced. "Come on, ladies," he said. "It's time to eat and listen to long boring speeches."   
  


Conversation immediately stopped as people entered the grand ballroom. The room was completely dark except for the small candles that floated in bowls of heavily scented gardenia blossoms. Overhead through the domed ceiling shone a brilliant full moon that reflected palely on thin wisps of clouds that floated across it. Huge, soft snowflakes floated lazily past the dome and down into the city far below that glowed as brightly as the hundreds of stars that peeped occasionally from behind the clouds.   
  


Britt rose to his feet as a prim Maitre' de escorted John and the lades to their table. "This is Colonel Abdullah ibn Ubayy," he said, introducing the hawk faced Arab rebellion leader who rose to his feet to greet Fatima and Danielle.   
  


"I am overjoyed to share my table with two of the fairest flowers of two continents," Ibn Ubayy murmured, pressing his lips to each lady's hand.   
  


"And this is the Ayatollah Abd Allah," Britt continued, introducing a gaunt grey-faced man with a straggly yellowed beard.   
  


The Shiite cleric remained in his seat, barely nodding his acknowledgment of the younger Reid. With a thin, shaking hand, he motioned to the Maitre' de, "It is bad enough that women have been admitted to this reception," he grumbled in a dry whispering voice. "I will not tolerate sharing a table with them, especially one who is so immodestly dressed. I demand to be seated at another table where there are no females."   
  


The Maitre' de worriedly scanned the other tables while quickly checking the seating list in his hand. "I'm sorry sir, but all of our tables are filled."   
  


Glaring at the unhappy man, the Ayatollah rose unsteadily to his feet. "Then I will return to my suite and lodge my complaints with this hotel about the lack of respect for my person and my station," he said angrily.   
  


"Sir, if I may intrude," broke in a tall dark-haired young man, his voice a soft French lilt, "I would be most happy to switch seats with this gentleman. At my table there are only old bachelors. I would much rather spend the evening in the presence of two beautiful women."   
  


"Would that be acceptable to you sir?" the Maitre' de asked the Ayatollah hopefully.   
  


"Barely," grunted the Ayatollah.   
  


"That was very nice of you, Jacques," Danielle said to the young man as he took a seat beside her.   
  


"Do you know each other?" Britt asked.   
  


"Oh, I'm sorry, Dad. This is Jacques La Blanc. We met in Paris last spring," Danielle said, blushing under the intensity of Jacques' green-eyed gaze.   
  


"Oui," Jacques said, "Most people rave about Paris in the spring, but Danielle... There is no comparison. She outshines the City of Lights itself."   
  


"Indeed?" Britt said coolly, his eyebrows arching in interest.   
  


"Jacques!" Danielle said, her cheeks flushing even more redly.   
  


Jacques patted her hand reassuringly. "Forgive me, mon Cherie. Monsieur Reid, I did not mean to imply that we had been intimate. Quite the contrary. Despite the most earnest of pleas from the men of France, Danielle remained as pure as the Maid of Orleans. No man was ever able to get past her defenses. Not even I," he admitted with a trace of wistful regret in his voice.   
  


"Alas," Jacques continued, "These are unfortunate times. Today even the very act of love can lead to a lingering death." He tilted his head, studying the elder Reid. "Not like in your day, Monsieur Reid. In those days a man could dine in whatever field Cupid led him."   
  


"You're wrong, Jacques. Even in my time, there was a cost to be paid for what some people then called 'Free Love'," Britt said. "There were venereal diseases then, just as there are now, and there was always the risk of pregnancy."   
  


"And of course, jealous husbands," Jacques said lightly. "But that never stopped you."   
  


Britt looked narrowly at the Frenchman. "I don't know what you're getting at, young man. I'll be first to admit that I was no saint when I was your age, and I surely don't intend to pry into my daughter's love life, but anybody who tries to force their intentions on her will have to answer to me," he warned in a cooly even voice.   
  


John leaned forward, his voice mirroring his father's, "That goes double for me, buster."   
  


Jacques laughed lightly, studying the two men past the rim of the champagne glass he had brought with him. "You misunderstand me, gentlemen. I would never dishonor Danielle." He took a sip from the glass, then put it down with a grimace of distaste. "The juice of the grape is at its best after it has been fermented. No matter how expensive the sparkling water you add to it, it is still nothing more than grape juice," he commented, "It's only fit for the breakfast table."   
  


He patted his lips with a linen napkin. "My mother remembers you very fondly, Monsieur Reid," he said.   
  


"Your mother?" Britt asked, frowning in thought.   
  


"La Countessa de la Grange. Surely you remember her, about thirty or so years ago? She's a sculptor. I believe you modeled for her several times, including a week long session at the chateau near the Riviera." Jacques smiled, studying Britt's reaction. "Her favorite piece is a young Neptune that forms the centerpiece of a fountain on the grounds. I always wondered who sat for it, and now I know."   
  


"Yes," Britt said cautiously, "I remember now. I wound up stuck in Paris, when I ran out of money and my father wouldn't send me any more because he knew I'd just waste it, like I did the rest. It's hard making money as a journalist in France when you only know English," he reluctantly admitted.   
  


"Oui," Jacques said, "Good male models can make excellent money, especially since they so much rarer than female ones."   
  


Britt studied the young Frenchman, there was something about him... "I didn't know your mother was married."   
  


"Of course not," Jacques shrugged carelessly. "My father allowed my mother her games, just as she allowed him his. She said you were one of her favorites. 'A young John Wayne,' she always said."   
  


"I'm surprised she remembers me so fondly," Britt said. "I never got back in touch with her after I left France. It was a difficult time then. My father was in trouble and when he died I had to take care of the newspaper. Unfortunately my time in France became nothing more than a fond dream of lost innocence," he explained.   
  


"Ah, the pressure of owning a business," Jacques remarked.   
  


"What do you do?" John asked, tiring of feeling like a spectator at a tennis match where the game was being played with an invisible ball. In the dark.   
  


"Why, I do nothing. My father left me with a lot of money, land and a title. My mother controls everything and allows me to do whatever I want as long as I do not spend too wildly."   
  


"Sounds boring," John said, "And a completely pointless way to live."   
  


"Hardly," Jacques said, "I am totally free, and I assure you, I do find ways to challenge myself."   
  


"Jacques," Fatima, broke in, sensing that John had picked up the gauntlet meant for his father, "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" she asked, hoping to move the conversation to safer ground.   
  


"No, my mother felt that having a son to carry on the family name, more than satisfied her duty as the countessa."   
  


Before the conversation could devolve any further, silver covered trays were presented at the table and among an assortment of gourmet delights of three continents, harmless small talk finally reigned among the combatants.   
  


  
  


After the meal and a multitude of speeches about the hopes of world peace and brotherhood, an orchestra assumed their places and struck up a waltz. Fatima excused herself, explaining that the heavy food and close air had made her slightly ill, but declined Danielle's offer to go with her to the ladies room. Jacques swept Danielle up from the table and led her in a gliding dance across the floor.   
  


"They look good together," Ibn Ubayy remarked.   
  


"Yeah," Britt said glumly.   
  


Ibn Ubayy's dark eyes narrowed. "I agree with you, Mr. Reid. I would not want my daughter with a man like that. He has no conscience."   
  


"Why do you say that?" Britt asked. "Do you know anything about him?"   
  


"I know very little about him, except that he is always showing up at one embassy party after another. He is one of those useless young people who have more money than they need, and do nothing useful with it, except to drown themselves in excess. They have no causes to fight for, nothing to live for, except for their own misguided pleasure. I would suggest you tell your beautiful daughter to have nothing to do with him, or I fear she will be hurt."   
  


Britt nodded his agreement, then smiled wryly. "Unfortunately, you don't know my daughter. She has a will of her own. I've given up trying to control her a long time ago. Forbidding her to do anything is likely to achieve the exact opposite end." He watched the young couple dance across the room. _They do look well together_, he thought,_ too well together_. Danielle resembled the young Frenchman more than she did her own twin brother.   
  


"I don't think it's a good idea to dismiss that young man so quickly," he said. "There's something about him... I can't put my finger on it, except to say that I was once very much like him, aimless, looking for nothing more than a good time. Then I was forced to grow up very quickly. That young man has a lot more to him than we 'old men' can see."   
  


"Perhaps you are right," Ibn Ubayy said, "But I feel you always knew right from wrong. I do not think that young man does. He's the kind of man who plays by his own rules." Ibn Ubayy rose from his chair. "This room is getting too close around me. I need some fresh air and a smoke. Will you join me?" he asked.   
  


Britt shook his head. "No, I think I'll stay here."   
  


Ibn Ubayy watched Danielle and Jacques dancing for a moment. "A wise choice," he commented.   
  


  
  


Ibn Ubayy found Fatima talking to a chador clad woman. Judging by the small slight figure that was barely detectable in the all covering robe and veil he could tell she was very young, little more than a girl, . She moved restlessly, nervously. She was very agitated about something. He moved into the shadows, until the girl had left, passing by him without seeing him. One of the Ayatollah's serving girls, he thought. Her robes were made of cheap coarse cloth and smelled of cooking oil and spices. The Ayatollah, he remembered, had insisted on having all his food made by his own people.   
  


"Fatima," he said, approaching John's fiancee, "It is good to see you again." He smiled. "I believe I knew you when you bore another name."   
  


Fatima smiled shyly, eyes modestly downcast. "I am sorry, but I think you are mistaken."   
  


"No, I am not mistaken. True, you are now fully a woman, and I knew you when you were a mere girl-child, but I never forget a face, or a voice. I must admit that your taking the name of the Prophet's daughter surprises me."   
  


"I don't know what you're talking about," she moved to get past him.   
  


Grabbing her arm, Ibn Ubayy hissed, "Do not harm the Reids. They are good people. They do not deserve the kind of harm you might bring them."   
  


Fatima's amber eyes met the old terrorist's in a cold hard gaze. "Who are you to speak of trouble?" she demanded.   
  


"You are right, girl. I am the wrong one to speak of trouble," he said releasing his hold. "But I warn you again, do not bring harm to Reid. He is an honorable man. I have a lot of respect for him. I don't want to see him hurt."   
  


"Don't worry, I have no intention of endangering Mr. Reid, or his family," she answered, rubbing her arm where Ibn Ubayy's hard grasp had left red welts.   
  


"Why are you here then? How does Reid's son figure in your plans?"   
  


"There are no 'plans'. John and I are very much in love and are going to be married very soon."   
  


"You in love? I find it hard to believe that you are capable of loving anyone."   
  


Fatima's heated reply was cut short by the loud chatter of gunfire. A chador clad figure raced past them, closely pursued by several men in green fatigues, automatic weapons in their hands.   
  


Ibn Ubayy caught the odor of cooking oil from the robes brushing past him. "Stop!" he shouted to the girl's pursuers.   
  


Unheeding the men opened fire, catching the girl in the back, spinning her around as she screamed. The stained glass window behind her folded over her falling body. It splintered and drifted in bright shards around her as for a breathless moment she hung in the night air, like a huge black bird taking wing, then it followed her to the dark ground far below.   
  


Suited secret service men, drawn by the sound of gunfire, raced down the hallway from the opposite direction. Seeing the fatigue dressed Arabs, they drew their own guns. "Put down your weapons!" they demanded.   
  


The Arabs glared defiantly at them and the secret service men tightened their grips on their guns.   
  


"Put down your weapons. Immediately," Ibn Ubayy demanded, placing himself between the two groups of armed men.   
  


For a tense moment the Arabs hesitated, and Ibn Ubayy was starting to wonder about his own ability to command when the guns clattered noisily to the floor.   
  


"What happened, Ibrahim?" he demanded of his aide who was standing at the head of the Arabs.   
  


"Yeah, what the hell is happening here?" echoed the leader of the secret service men.   
  


Ibrahim snapped a quick salute to his commander, and held himself stiffly at attention. "Sir, the girl was trying to kill the Ayatollah with this knife," he said, holding a large knife with a heavy ivory handle and a wickedly curving blade. "When one of my men tried to take it from her, she grabbed his gun and tried to turn it on the Ayatollah. She was disarmed before she could fire and she tried to escape."   
  


"Is the Ayatollah all right?" the secret service man demanded.   
  


Refusing to answer the American, Ibrahim remained at attention and addressed his commander, "Sir, the Ayatollah is safe. Some of our men," he continued, placing a special emphasis on the word 'our', "Have remained with him to ensure that no other attempts are made on his life."   
  


"Who the hell was that girl and what the hell are you people doing armed at this conference?" the secret service man angrily demanded. "Weapons were banned across the board. We were to be contacted immediately if anything happened."   
  


"If it had not been for myself and my men, the Ayatollah would have been killed," Ibrahim answered hotly.   
  


"You could have easily disarmed her without the guns. As it was she almost used one of your own guns to kill him," the secret service man shot back. "Now who the hell was that girl and why was she trying to kill the Ayatollah?"   
  


"Perhaps I can explain," Fatima said quietly.   
  


"Then explain," the secret service man said tightly.   
  


"I was speaking to her just a few minutes ago. She was very distressed. She had been given to the Ayatollah as a guarantee of her family's good behavior. She had just found out that her brother had just been killed by a firing squad because he had led a protest against the Ayatollah's regime. I tried to convince her not to seek revenge, but it appears I have failed."   
  


"I see," the secret service man said. "I want you to come with me so we can straighten things out." He glared at the Arabs. "This is supposed to be a peace conference, those weapons will be turned over immediately."   
  


Ibrahim and his men glanced questioningly at the Ibn Ubayy. He nodded. "Do it," he ordered. "We will discuss this matter later."   
  


"Do you have any more weapons stashed that we don't know about?" the American asked.   
  


"I do not believe so, but then I did not know about these until just now. I will talk further with my men and if other weapons are in existence, I promise you they will be turned over to you."   
  


Ibn Ubayy thoughtfully watched as Fatima was led away by the secret service men. "What plans, girl, are you hatching?" he thought. "And how will the world fare if they succeed?" 


	4. Family Matters

Chapter Four   
  


Family Matters   
  
  
  


I   
  
  
  


In what had once been a marshland habitat for water birds and muskrats sat the Kingdom of Divine Love Church, the heart of Dr. Ernest P. Goode's televangelical empire. Trams equipped for the wintry chill of the Great Lake city shuttled people to and from parking lots that rivaled those of Disneyland in size. In the vast complex of the sacred and the profane, chapels and religious schools were intermixed with business offices and television studios. At the heart of the complex was the auditorium-like cathedral. Larger than the Astrodome, it gleamed in gold and white like a giant winged beast poised in flight.   
  


"What do you think of it?" James O'Leary asked Lee as they stood in the huge lobby outside the main sanctuary.   
  


"I've never seen anything like this in my entire life," Lee admitted.   
  


"Nothing, not even the papist Vatican, can compare with the KDL. It's the largest church in the world," James said, beaming with pride. "People come from all over the world to see it. And it's all done for the greater glory of God."   
  


_To somebody's greater glory _Lee thought cynically. Aloud he said, "This place must've cost a fortune to build."   
  


"I've heard that it cost more than a billion dollars to build, but isn't that better than spending that kind of money for a single aircraft built for war?"   
  


"I can't argue with that," Lee said, "But where did all that money come from?"   
  


"It came from all of us," James said, pointing to the crowd milling about the lobby, many of them standing in lines in front of tables stacked high with cassettes, CD's and videotapes. "Each of us contributes ten percent of what we earn to further God's ministry. Even the youngest child's pennies serve God's work."   
  


Lee nodded, thinking about the sums donated by Red Knight. "I wonder though, if that money wouldn't be better spent helping people who are less well off? Some of these people look like they can't even afford a decent meal," he commented, noticing that although many were well-dressed, even expensively so, there were also many who seemed to ill-afford the expensive videotapes that were carried with reverential care in work-reddened hands or those that were thin and age-spotted. Thin, knobby kneed children in hand-me-down clothes were led along by parents in clothing worn from too many washings. In their parents' hands were videotapes and cassettes from which Dr. Goode's face beamed benignly.   
  


"What is given, is given freely, each according to their abilities," James pointed out. "Just because people are poor in material goods doesn't mean that they aren't rich in spirit."   
  


"Maybe you're right," Lee said, but as he said it, he thought about the chauffeured limousines Goode and his entourage traveled around in, and the costly hand-tailored suits and Italian shoes and the gold and diamond rings that glittered on Goode's fingers. All for God's glory, he wondered, or Goode's?   
  


Following the press of people from the noisily busy lobby, James and Lee entered the sanctuary. Lee suppressed a low whistle of astonishment. From the ribs of the huge dome overhead were strung hundreds of tiny lights which against the darkened ceiling created the illusion of a starlit night sky. Other lights were strung along the pews and aisles that sloped gently to the center. The slope was barely enough for everyone to see the main altar and the gold and white draped pulpit. Hanging high above the center of the sanctuary was a golden cross suspended by thin, nearly invisible wires.   
  


After everyone had filtered out of the lobby and had found their seats, a choir in shimmering white robes filed down the four aisles, their voice raised in song. Lee found himself beginning to enjoy himself, and wondered if he had read James and his fundamentalist beliefs wrong. A mix of old traditional Christmas carols, gospel music and modern Christian songs, he found the music not only enjoyable, but spiritually uplifting as well. In a way he envied James' unquestioning faith.   
  


A hush fell over the audience, and an electric rush of anticipation filled the crowd, including, to his surprise, Lee, as the music suddenly stopped and the cathedral's interior was plunged into darkness except for the tiny lights along the ceiling and the cross which glowed with an internal golden light. Suddenly a brilliant beam of light stabbed out from the suspended cross, illuminating the pulpit which had risen far above the ground. Dr. Goode stood basking in the bright light, his white robes gleamed supernaturally as did his white hair, and the golden scarf draped from his shoulders.   
  


"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice sounding as near as one's neighbor. The simple greeting had the import of a blessing.   
  


Dr. Goode's voice hardened and his benign expression became grim. "Ladies and gentlemen, during this most holy time of our faith, our city fathers have chosen to welcome a cancer into our fair city. Under the guise of seeking peace, they are supporting an unholy meeting with your hard earned taxes. Taxes that should be going to care for the children, the elderly, and all those who are so sorely in need. Those taxes are being used to wine and dine the representatives of the Muslim nations who have invaded our city. These same nations can destroy our nation, our very way of life, and our faith in the one, true god."   
  


"Not only can they but they will," Dr. Goode continued as red lights flashed overhead and the air crackled with electricity and boomed with thunder that accented his every word. "For that is the foresworn mission of their heretical cult. If we are not vigilant, if we do not crush these people before they become too strong, they will destroy us. They will enslave us, forcing our children to worship their god, Muhammad. They will take our daughters and imprison them in the harems of their pleasure palaces, they will destroy all of our industries, throwing families into the streets, forcing them to grub around in the garbage, while they grow fat off the sweat and blood of our people."   
  


Dr. Goode's voice rose as his face reddened with passion. "This conference must be stopped! Before it is too late!," He urged, thumping on the podium. "We must become the soldiers of Christ and eliminate the heathens before they eliminate us!"   
  


The crowd rose to its feet as the 1812 overture blasted in the air and the red flashes were joined by white and blue flashes. Lee rose to his feet, adding his voice to the roaring, screaming crowd. 

"God bless America!" Dr. Goode shouted as "Onward Christian Soldiers" blasted over the angry voices. 

"Amen!" he shouted.   
  


"Amen!" the crowd responded in one voice.   
  


Again Dr. Goode shouted, "Amen!" And again, the crowd responded, "Amen!" Again and again, Dr. Goode shouted, "Amen" and again and again the crowd responded until the entire cathedral echoed and reechoed until the echoes could no longer be told apart from the voices from which they came.   
  


Suddenly all light went out and there was absolute silence.   
  


Lee blinked rapidly as all of the interior lights came on. James grinned broadly, his voice hoarse from shouting. "What did I tell you? Isn't he the greatest?"   
  


"Yeah, great," Lee answered, feeling limp from the emotion wrung from him.   
  


"I tell you, Lee, Dr. Goode is 100 percent right. That conference must be stopped. The poison those Arabs are spreading throughout the world must be stopped before it destroys us," James said enthusiastically as the two young men joined the exodus out the vast sanctuary. All around them, people were leaving their seat, with Dr. Goode's name and message on their lips.   
  


"How do you plan on doing that and keeping your job at the Sentinel?" Lee asked.   
  


"Sometimes sacrifices must be made," James said with an odd look in his eyes. "But that's why I brought you here. Dr. Goode wanted me to introduce you to him. Since you have the inside track with Mr. Reid, maybe you can convince him that what he is doing is wrong. He must stop the conference before it's too late," James said as he led Lee across the upper aisles and away from the doors leading to the lobby.   
  


"I don't think I have as much influence over Mr. Reid as you think, but I sure will try to do what I can," Lee said, trying to match James' enthusiasm, all the while wondering what the other man was capable of.   
  


"I'm glad to hear that. I knew you were okay from the first time I met you," James said, opening the door and leading the way along a narrow corridor that looked more like the backstage of a theater than a church.   
  


They stopped at a door guarded by two grim-faced men in khaki and olive drab uniforms. On their shoulders were patches bearing the insignia of the Red Knight security company.   
  


"I'm James O'Leary," James said, introducing himself. "I have someone here that Dr. Goode wanted to see."   
  


One of the guards grunted and said, "Let's see your I.D."   
  


James pulled out his wallet and snapped it open to his license before handing it over to the guard. The man examined the license and looked James over. "Just a minute," he said and entered the room he was guarding.   
  


A few minutes later he returned and said, "You can go in now."   
  


Lee and James entered a plushly furnished room with thick sky blue carpeting and ornate white French Provincial furniture. Dr. Goode who had changed from his clerical robes into a suit of a blue slightly lighter than the carpet rose from a chair and walked over to the young men. He grasped James' hand with both hands and thanked him for coming. He then turned to Lee and grasped his hand in the same hearty grip. Lee was surprised by the strength of the evangelist's grip. The cool dryness of his hands, like the coolness in the dark brown eyes behind the silver rimmed glasses belied the warmth of his greeting.   
  


"I'm so very glad to meet you. James had told me a great many things about you, including that fact that you are a Buddhist. Yet you don't look entirely Chinese."   
  


"My mother was Caucasian," Lee explained. "But she became a Buddhist when she married my father."   
  


"Then this service must have been quite an experience for you."   
  


"It was," Lee admitted. "I've never seen anything like it before. I'm impressed. I haven't been much exposed to a religious Christian program, so I heard a lot of things tonight that I hadn't heard before."   
  


"Indeed?" Dr. Goode said.   
  


"Yeah, my parents didn't celebrate Christmas, so all I ever knew about it was what I learned in school, you know, all those things about Santa Claus, and presents and stuff like that. It kind of makes me think how much I've missed. There's so much commercialization of Christmas that you forget that it's really about the birth of Jesus."   
  


Dr. Goode's smile broadened. "I'm glad to hear that. Perhaps we will see you here again, and perhaps you will consent to receive God's saving grace during one of our later services."   
  


"Maybe I will," Lee said.   
  


"Oh, how is Mrs. Reid doing now?" Dr. Goode asked.   
  


"She's out of the hospital and doing fine."   
  


"That's good. By the way, is it true what I've been hearing in the news, that the police have no suspects yet? I'm just being curious, you know, but since you are so close to the Reids, I was wondering if you had heard something that isn't being released to the public yet."   
  


"I haven't heard a thing."   
  


"That's too bad. Young man," Dr. Goode said, laying a fatherly hand on Lee's shoulder, "I am truly worried about this conference. I feel that it will bring nothing but trouble to your Mr. Reid. If he doesn't take steps to stop it before it's too late . . . "   
  


"It's already started, Dr. Goode. There's no way it can be stopped now. Not even if Mr. Reid wanted to, which he doesn't."   
  


"My son, with God, everything is possible. Talk to Mr. Reid, try to make him see the light, just as you have tonight. Tell him that it's God's will and the will of the American people that this so-called peace conference be stopped."   
  


"I don't think what I say will make a difference," Lee said. "But I can try."   
  


"That is all that I ask," Dr. Goode said. "I will pray to God that Mr. Reid listens to your clear voice of reason."   
  


  
  


Dr. Goode's benevolent smile quickly disappeared once the two young men had left. The facade of cheery goodwill was dropped as quickly as the stage curtain on a two-bit vaudeville act. "Louis, Fred," he said to the guards as he left his suite, "I will be in my chapel. See that I am not disturbed."   
  


Dr. Goode walked through a connecting tunnel to his private chapel. It was not a room, but an entire church that he had brought stone by stone from the small New England town where Goode's father had served as pastor many long years ago. It was a reminder of where he had once been and of how far he had come. It was a symbol of his triumph over disgrace.   
  


His father had once been a passionate minister to a complacent congregation. Grown fat off prosperous cotton mills they did not wish to hear his father's threats of eternal damnation and as his calls to repentance had become more strident, and more desperate from both the pulpit and the street corner, the more people rejected him and called him a madman. Revelations of the beatings of his children to the rhythm of biblical passages had been the final straw, and the town, unmoved by his threats of eternal hellfire had thrown him into an insane asylum to die a slow death.   
  


After his family had fled in disgrace, Goode took on a new name, gotten his doctorate in divinity from a small southern school, and hit the road as a traveling evangelist. He had prospered beyond his wildest dreams after discovering the power of television. He smiled at the memory of the day he had come to tear the church away from the ground where it had been built 150 years before. God had taken their wealth and pride by delivering their industry to the masses of Asia and Goode took away their church. From the stone of its walls, the wood of its floors to the oaken pews and their burgundy velvet cushions and the grey slate roof overhead, he had taken it all, including the communion vessels and the altar beneath them.   
  


The service tonight had been very successful, he thought. Ever increasingly he was seeing powerful and influential people among his flock. His one problem was Britt Reid. The man and his newspaper could still be a serious threat to their plans. At least through O'Leary they were making progress in eliminating that problem. If he could not get Reid himself to join, perhaps they would be able to convince one of his children to come to their side. After all, neither Reid nor his wife would live forever, and accidents do happen.   
  


  
  
  
  


The Ayatollah Abd Allah had eased himself slowly down to his knees onto the intricately decorated prayer rug. He was getting old, he decided, and his legs could not bend as they once did when he was a young man, who filled with Allah's fire, had wandered from village to village, preaching Allah's word to whoever would listen. Always he had tried to warn the faithful against their infidel masters, and in time he saw the ebb of the European curse in the Muslim lands and the return of the _shariah_, the sacred law of Allah.   
  


Now he was an old man, and it was becoming increasingly harder to continue his work, especially since he had arrived in this accursed land, with its freezing cold and hellish winds that always seemed to be blowing through the concrete canyons of this foreign city.   
  


In this room the infidels had followed his orders perfectly. The walls were a smooth featureless white and the hidden ceiling lights were dim, helping maintain the illusion of quiet stillness. As instructed, against one wall was the _mihrab_, decorated with tiles of multicolored triangles. He faced toward it, as Allah had commanded, in the direction of the holy city of Mecca. He closed his eyes tiredly, relaxing, clearing his mind, for a moment he could almost forget he was not in his own mosque, that he was not in _dar al-harb, _theland of the enemy.   
  


His Friday message, _al-hamdu li-lah_, praise be to Allah, had gone exceedingly well. His exhortations for an Islamic revolution had indeed gone very well indeed. Of course, most of the representatives at the conference were Sunni, as were their countries, but many of them had come just to hear him. Allah had granted him a wide-ranging reputation for skillful oration in exchange for his lost youth. Even Ibn Ubayy and some of his men had attended. They could be useful in the future, he decided. Even one or two of the infidels had been there. Cultural tourists, perhaps, but they may yet, unaware, become the forefront of the revolution of the one, true religion.   
  


He placed his Koran onto the intricately carved book stand before him and opened it, taking care not to crease the delicate parchment pages. The illuminated pages had dimmed greatly over the many years that the Holy book had passed from father to son and so on through many generations and the beautiful calligraphy laying down Allah's words had been smudged in several places by loving fingers as they traced along the lines that detailed Allah's never changing design for the life of the Faithful. No matter, he knew every sura, every word, by heart.   
  


  
  


Dr. Goode knelt in the front pew and opened the old bible in his hand. The soft leather cover was worn and soiled from work-hardened hands and the dirt of many foreign lands. It had given succor to his father and his father before him, and so on through the generations in both good times and bad. When crops were poor, and war threatened at the door, it gave hope and strength. In times of prosperity, it was a warning against self-satisfaction and in times of indecision, a clarion call to action. He thumbed through the well-worn pages until he came upon a familiar passage, one that he had read so many times before, a foretelling of what was to come. 

_Behold a people rise like a lioness, And as a lion lifts itself; It shall not lie down until it devours the prey, And drinks the blood of the slain._   
  


He would do whatever was necessary to prepare the world for the new millennium and the coming of the Messiah.   
  


  
  


Soon, the Ayatollah thought, all would be in readiness, and nothing would stand in their way. In less years than could be counted on a single hand, the world would be ready for the coming of the hidden Imam, the righteous Caliph, who would lead a united world into the future. He read the passage that the Koran was opened to.   
  


_Then let those fight in God's way who sell this world's life for the Future; and as to him who fights in God's way, then should he be killed, or should he conquer, we shall then give him great reward._   
  


It was an assurance that _Inshallah_, if Allah wills, that by whatever method was necessary, whether it be by sword, by flame, or subtle persuasion, they would be successful in purifying the world of the infidel and the false believers.   
  


His eyes widened, seeing a chador-clad woman coming into the room. "Woman, what are you doing here?" he angrily demanded. "I had left instructions that I was not to be disturbed."   
  


The woman bowed, her expression invisible behind the black veil except for the fire in her golden eyes. "Holy Man," she said bitterly. "You were not always so holy."   
  


The Ayatollah rose unsteadily to his feet, but moved no further. From withing the folds of woman's garments appeared a small, red pistol. It looked like nothing more than a child's toy. "Once a long time ago, you murdered a man because he spoke of peace between the Arab and the Jew. Then, as now, you sought to silence the voice of the dove. You were successful, then in your triumph, you burned his home along with his family after you had raped his wife and his eldest girl-child."   
  


The woman pulled back the black hood and veil away and golden brown hair tumbled free. "You thought you had destroyed everyone, but the eldest daughter had crawled from the ashes of her home. She soon died by her own hand, but not before she had told the tale of your infamy. That tale was remembered and retold much later to the babe you had not known about that had been laying ill in a Jewish hospital."   
  


She drew herself erect, the small brightly colored gun steady in her gloved hands. "As you can see, she is well now and fully grown." Her fingers tightened on the trigger.   
  


The Ayatollah raised his hands, futilely warding off the death in the woman's eyes.   
  


"You will not succeed this time, Holy Man," she hatefully hissed. The gun coughed twice, sounding no louder than a heavy dictionary being dropped. The Ayatollah folded into himself like a puppet whose strings had been cut.   
  
  
  
  
  


II   
  
  
  
  
  


"I know it's late, Mr. Reid," Lee said as Britt stroked the flames into life in the fireplace in his Valley Grove home. All the house was dark except for this one room and the fire was the sole light in it.   
  


Britt shrugged, replacing the brass poker into its stand. "No problem," he said, "I've been having a hard time getting to sleep anyway. What's bothering you?" he asked.   
  


"I don't know if it anything or not..." Lee said hesitantly as he waited for Britt to settle into the chair nearest to the fire.   
  


"It must be something important for you to drive all the way over here," Britt answered.   
  


Noticing Casey slip into the study and curl up on the couch, Lee smiled uncertainly at her, "I'm sorry if I woke you up."   
  


She shook her head. "Don't worry about it. I guess we all have been having a hard time getting to sleep these days," she said, pointedly looking at Britt who uncomfortably avoided her gaze. "Please go on with what you were saying."   
  


"Well, it's about that service at the Kingdom of Divine Love Church," Lee began.   
  


"Dr. Goode's church?" Britt asked.   
  


"Yeah. I've been hanging around with James like you asked. He's a nice guy, but there's something creepy about him. It's like he's just barely holding it all together. One of these days I'm afraid he's going to go completely off the deep end. And if Dr. Goode's services are all like this one, I don't have to wonder why."   
  


"What happened?" Britt said.   
  


Lee wrapped his arms around himself, watching the fire as he spoke, "At first it seemed to be okay. You know, just a bunch of Christmas songs, and plays put on by little kids playing shepherds and angels and stuff like that."   
  


He was quiet for a moment, staring at the flames, collecting his thoughts. "I don't really remember much after that." A troubled look came into his dark eyes. "All I can remember is a bunch of jumbled feelings about Dr. Goode's sermon. It was so full of hate."   
  


He looked up at Britt. "I thought this was supposed to be a season of brotherly love, you know, 'Goodwill to All'. Goode's sermon was full of hate."   
  


"Against who?" Britt asked.   
  


"Against the Muslims." Lee frowned worriedly. "Mr. Reid, he wants that conference stopped and I don't think he much cares about how it's done."   
  


"That's interesting," Britt said steepling his fingers in concentration. Plans were already starting to form in his mind.   
  


"But there's something else that's bothering you," Casey guessed.   
  


Lee nodded. "I don't know. It's just that I found myself going along with what Goode was saying." He shuddered visibly. "If he had told me to jump off a cliff, I would've done it." He fell heavily beside Casey and she grasped his shoulders in motherly comfort.   
  


Britt leaned forward, his pale eyes alight with keen interest. "Do you remember anything out of the usual about the service?" he asked.   
  


"I wouldn't know what's usual or unusual. I've rarely ever been to church."   
  


"But you do have some idea of what you might expect."   
  


"Some..." Lee said doubtfully.   
  


"Did this service jibe with your ideas?"   
  


"Not really."   
  


"How was it different?"   
  


Lee shrugged. "I dunno. Except..."   
  


"Go on," Britt encouraged.   
  


"Well, to tell you the truth, I've seen rock concerts that were duller than this."   
  


"Explain."   
  


"There was a lot of loud music, with a heavy beat, and I remember lots of bright lights, and thunder. I remember thunder. It was like it was drumming in Goode's words."   
  


"It almost sounds like Dr. Goode might be using some subliminal techniques there," Casey said thoughtfully.   
  


"Could be," Britt agreed.   
  


"But that's illegal," Lee said.   
  


"Since when has that stopped someone?" Britt said bitterly.   
  


"You could be right, Mrs. Reid," Lee said. "You know, James was asking me some questions about subliminal suggestions. He had heard that you and my father had been involved in a case about subliminal messages."   
  


"Did you ask him why he was asking those questions?" Britt asked.   
  


Lee nodded. "He said that Goode had asked him about it. James then went on how great it would be to be able to control people's minds. To make a better world."   
  


Britt felt like the room's temperature had fallen to sub freezing.   
  


The phone's ringing interrupted his thoughts and he reached over to the desk beside him to answer. He listened for a few minutes, spoke quietly into it and hung up, feeling even more disturbed than he had before. "That's the night editor," he said. "It looks like somebody has just killed the Ayatollah Abd Allah."   
  


Casey gasped. "Do they have any idea who did it?" she asked.   
  


"No. The only thing they know is that some woman in one of those chador outfits had served the guards some coffee. When they came to, the Ayatollah had already been killed. That's all they have right now. Tomorrow they might get a better idea of what kind of weapon was used after the M.E. gets a look at the body. So far all they can say is that he was shot with a small caliber weapon."   
  


"How could a gun get in there?" Casey asked. "I thought they had installed metal detectors after the first attempt."   
  


"I have no idea. Maybe the murder weapon was already there before the metal detectors were installed," Britt answered.   
  


"Or maybe it was one of those plastic or ceramic jobs," Lee suggested.   
  


Britt nodded his agreement. "Could be. That's something I'm sure the cops and the secret service will be looking into." 

"Who were the guards?" Lee asked.   
  


"Secret Service," Britt said, shaking his head. "There's going to be a big stink about this, especially after that first attempt." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "We're going to be in for an early morning tomorrow. And probably a very late night as well. Why don't you stay here tonight and get some sleep while you can?"   
  


Rising to his feet, Lee said, "I have a bad feeling that Dr. Goode might be behind this."   
  


"How strong?" Britt asked.   
  


"Strong enough that I think the Green Hornet should ask him a few questions."   
  


"Perhaps he will," Britt answered.   
  
  
  


  
  


After Lee had left, Britt turned to Casey who was still curled up on the couch. Her feet drawn up under her were covered by the thick terrycloth robe she was wearing. "Why don't you go to bed too. I still have a lot to do," he said.   
  


"Like the past few nights since I've gotten home?" she asked very quietly.   
  


"Yes," Britt answered.   
  


"Last night I found you sleeping in the chair," she said. "There was some idiotic late, late show on the TV."   
  


"I was trying to unwind," Britt said, "I couldn't sleep."   
  


"Britt what's wrong?" she asked. "Why have you been avoiding me?"   
  


"I haven't been avoiding you."   
  


"Not during the day, no, but at night. Every night since I've gotten home, you've been staying up waiting until I was asleep before you came to bed. Why?" She bit her lip, as she felt the tears starting to well up in her eyes. "Have I changed that much?" She ran her hand through her hair. "I know I must look a sight, with this cast and my hair's so short since it had to be cut because of the concussion, I didn't think . . . "   
  


"That's not it, honey," Britt said, "It's just that I've had a lot on my mind."   
  


"You're lying," she interrupted through angry tears. "Why don't you say the truth? That I look horrible. That you don't love me any more."   
  


Britt sat beside her, holding her tightly against his chest as she shook with sobs. "Casey," he said, "I was afraid of hurting you. I wanted to wait until you were completely well. It has nothing to do with the way you look. You're still the most beautiful woman I know."   
  


She looked up at him. "I need you, Britt. I need your arms around me, I need your loving. Not having you, hurts me worse than any old broken arm."   
  


"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."   
  


Casey caressed his hand, tracing the thick tendons and veins on the back of his hand. "Do you still blame yourself for the bombing?" she asked thoughtfully.   
  


"Yeah," he admitted after a long pause. "I guess I do. If I hadn't been involved with that damned conference, the Sentinel wouldn't have been attacked. I'm worried about you, and the kids. This won't be the last time something like that will happen and now with this Green Hornet business. I guess that's why I didn't marry you earlier than I did. I didn't want to expose you and any children we might have to the danger. After I was wounded and Kato left, I thought that part of my life was over. But now . . . "   
  


"Were you worried about protecting me, or yourself?" she asked.   
  


"Both, I guess," Britt admitted with a shrug. He rubbed the tears from Casey's cheek. "I don't know if I could bear living if I lost you or the kids."   
  


"You'd find a way," she said. "Just like we'd have to find a way to go on if something happened to you, just like other people have had to. Every day someone loses a person they love. Maybe not because that person drives around in the middle of the night in a big, black car. It could be because of some illness, or violence, or something as stupid as slipping in the bathtub.   
  


"We can't waste what precious time we have together, worrying about what might happen. We can't stop loving each other, because we're afraid of the pain we might feel in the future."   
  


"Britt," she said emphatically, "Love is all that we have to get us through life."   
  


Britt drew her closer. "That's why I need you so much. I need you to remind me what's important."   
  


"So are you coming to bed with me now?" she asked as she teasingly began to unbutton his shirt.   
  


"Now?"   
  


"It's been a long time and there's more room on the bed than on this couch," she tilted her head, laughter in her eyes. "A cast does tend to get in the way, you know."   
  


Britt swept her up in his arms. "Don't worry, we'll work around it."   
  
  
  
  
  


II   
  
  
  
  
  


The next evening John was surprised to find Mike Axford ringing the doorbell. In Axford's arms was a large box and at his feet were two more large boxes, one of which was barely holding it's own against the papers that were bulging out of the folded top flaps.   
  


"Hi Johnny," Axford said, pushing the box into John's arms.   
  


"A little early for Christmas, aren't we?" John said as he tried to peak into the box.   
  


Axford picked up one of the boxes on the ground and headed through the door. "Nope, these aren't Christmas gifts. I'm working on my memoirs and I need your Dad's help," he explained.   
  


"Dad's out right now. I think he had something to do at the conference," John said, wondering whether he would be able to carry the last box and the one left in front of the door at the same time.   
  


"Don't worry about the other box, I'll get it in a minute," Axford said. "Too bad about that Ayatollah guy getting killed. You'd think those ragheads could leave their feuds behind them for a few days."   
  


"The police aren't sure who killed him yet," John said as he followed the stout reporter into the living room.   
  


"I hear the guy was almost dead anyway," Axford said.   
  


"Yeah, the M.E. said that he was dying from arsenic poisoning."   
  


"Do you think it was accidental or on purpose?" Axford asked.   
  


John shrugged. "Hard to tell, but I think it's a good bet that the girl who was killed at the reception had something to do with the poisoning. The Ayatollah had insisted on having all of his food cooked by his own people."   
  


"And the girl was one of them," Axford guessed as he headed back to the front door.   
  


John nodded. "Yeah, she was with him for a few years. It had something to do with her family, or something."   
  


"You know that Ayatollah might've been killed by somebody different from whoever sent the poisoner. After all why bother shooting him if he's dying anyway," Axford suggested. He lifted the last box and deposited it into John's arms. "Of course," Axford continued, "It could be that if the girl was the poisoner, they had to find some other way of knocking him off after she was killed."   
  


For a moment John's legs threatened to buckle under the weight of the box unexpectedly being dumped into his arms. "What do you have in there? An anvil?" he protested.   
  


Axford closed the door behind them. "Nope, pictures, lot's of them, rare stuff too. Where's the rest of the family? They'll love looking at this stuff."   
  


"Mom and Fatima's out shopping. Since Mom's feeling better, they've been doing a lot of that lately," John answered.   
  


"And what about Dani?" Axford asked.   
  


"I was taking a shower, you nosey old coot," Danielle said as she gave the old reporter a loving hug.   
  


Axford took a deep breath, taking in the clean scent of roses and soap, "Nothing smells better than a pretty girl fresh from the shower," he said with a melodramatic sigh. "If only I was young again."   
  


"What do you have there?" Danielle asked.   
  


"Pictures and papers. I'm writing my memoirs and I thought the family would get a kick out of them," Axford explained as he pulled a small wooden chair with a leather webbed seat closer to the largest of the boxes. The chair creaked alarmingly as he sat heavily down on it.   
  


"Uh, Mike," Danielle said, "Why don't we move the boxes closer to the couch. It's more comfortable there and we can put things on the coffee table that way."   
  


Axford shifted his weight on the delicate chair for a moment. "Yeah, I think you're right." He shook his head as he rose out of the chair. "They don't make chairs like they used to," he commented.   
  


"Actually Mom just bought it at an antique auction," Danielle explained. "She hasn't had the chance to tighten the joints yet."   
  


"She better fix it before Britt sits in it. He'd break it for sure," Axford said as he sat on the couch and watched Danielle and John move the heavy boxes.   
  


"Mom would kill him if he did," John whispered under his breath to his sister.   
  


Axford opened the largest box and pulled out an old photo album with an ornate Japanese lacquered cover. "Here's some really old stuff from when I got out of the service," he said, flipping quickly through the pages.   
  


"I didn't know you were in the service," John said.   
  


"Yeah, Army Air Corps, it was," Axford said, stopping at a picture of a heavy set young man in his dress uniform.   
  


"Were you a pilot?" Danielle asked.   
  


"Nah," Axford answered, "I was a cook." He shrugged. "I had bad eyes."   
  


"Being a cook's an important job," Danielle said, "An army can't operate on an empty stomach."   
  


"Humph, to hear those guys talk you'd think they rather starve. Said for an Irishman, I couldn't even boil potatoes." He flipped to another page showing the same young man, only slightly older and in a police cadet's uniform. "After the war I joined the police force. That's how I met your father." He pointed to a black and white photo of a slender young man dressed in blue jeans and a matching jacket standing in a James Dean-like pose against a brick wall.   
  


"That's Dad!" John exclaimed.   
  


"Yeah, that's him. He was in trouble all the time. He was an outsider from the West, afraid of nobody, and too attractive to the girls for his own good," Axford explained. "His school was on my beat and it seemed like he was in the middle of every fight I had to break up there. Either it was over some girl or because some tough mouthed off to him. It was a tough neighborhood, and he was always sticking up for the younger kids. So when there wasn't a pack of girls around him, it was a bunch of little kids.   
  


"That's why Henry, your grandfather, hired me," Axford continued. "I was supposed to act as Britt's bodyguard, but my main job was to keep him out of trouble. It was a hardest dammed job I ever had." He flipped to another page and pointed to a photo showing a young Britt standing with an arm draped around the shoulders of a slender young oriental man.   
  


"That's Lee's father, isn't it?" John asked.   
  


"Yeah," Axford answered. "After Britt and Henry came back from Japan with him, my job keeping an eye on Britt got even harder. Every time I turned my back those two would be in the middle of some kind of mischief. Britt had more than a reporter's curiosity and Kato was always game for some new adventure. At least by then Britt was big enough to take care of himself and, I got to admit, Kato probably did a better job of protecting him than I ever did. Except for when . . . "   
  


Axford went silent for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fist. Finally he rubbed his face, his faded blue eyes bleak. "Sorry, kids, I didn't mean to go soft on you. I guess I still can't forget how Kato couldn't protect your Dad from that cowardly gangland attack." He shook his head slowly. "I still remember him laying on that hospital bed looking as pale as death, especially after losing your grandpa the way we did."   
  


Danielle placed a hand on Axford's knee and squeezed it. "It's okay, Mike," she said.   
  


Mike nodded. "Too bad you two never knew Henry. He would've made a great grandpa."   
  


"You're like a grandfather to us," Danielle said, hugging him.   
  


"Yeah, Mike, we both love you," John chimed in.   
  


"You kids are the best thing that's ever happened to me." Axford said. He solidly slammed the scrapbook closed. "Enough of the long faces," he said as he pulled out another scrapbook, this time one with a plain pasteboard cover and brimming with 8 x 10's and newspaper clippings. "This is why I came over here in the first place. Here is some stuff I wanted to go over with your Dad." He opened the scrapbook and spread out the photos and pieces of paper.   
  


John pulled out a yellowed piece of paper. "This is about the Green Hornet," he said.   
  


"This is all about the Green Hornet," Axford explained. "I got every clipping about the Hornet from the time he first appeared to when he disappeared. And now that he's reappeared I'm back to collecting stuff on him."   
  


"What's this?" John asked, pulling out a photo of a large black low-slung car.   
  


Axford looked at it. "That's the Black Beauty, the Green Hornet's car. That's no ordinary car either. It's equipped with rockets, sleeping gas jets, a flying TV camera and all kinds of other stuff."   
  


"Uh, Mike, would you like a cup of coffee?" John asked, rising to his feet.   
  


"Yeah, sure," Mike said.   
  


"Dani, could you help me out? Maybe you can find some cookies or cake that we could have with our coffee." John asked his sister.   
  


"Okay," Danielle said, following her brother out of the living room.   
  


"What's up, John?" she asked her brother as soon as they were out of Mike's hearing.   
  


"That car," John said as he began filling the coffee maker. "I saw Dad getting out of it while he was staying at the hospital in Mom's room. I heard him telling the driver to pick him up the next night."   
  


"But Mike said that it belongs to the Green Hornet. What would Dad be doing with the Green Hornet?" Danielle asked.   
  


"I don't know," John answered. "Every time I try to ask him, I get the brush off. There's always some reason why he can't talk to me."   
  


"What are you planning on doing about it?" Danielle asked.   
  


"I have a feeling that Lee's involved in it somehow. He's staying at Dad's old bachelor pad. I think I remember Dad mentioning something about the townhouse to the driver. I think we should pay Lee a visit tonight right after Mike leaves and find out what the Hell is going on."   
  


III   
  
  
  


A heavy blanket of dark clouds hung in the night sky, reflecting back all light, draping the city in a breathless, sound deadening false twilight. A damp cold mist floated in the air forming bright halos around the lights in the nearly empty parking lot that surrounded The Kingdom of Divine Love's huge complex. The huge cathedral floated above the haze like an insubstantial memory that disappears in the morning sun.   
  


The Black Beauty pulled up in front of the cathedral next to the few remaining cars, including a new stretch Mercedes limousine and some nondescript sedans. The Green Hornet and Kato stepped out of the car and walked to the front door. It was locked and everything was dark inside.   
  


"Going to use the Sting?" Kato asked.   
  


The Green Hornet shook his head. "Not yet. Let's take a look around first," he answered.   
  


Their feet crunching through the hard crust of the snow surrounding the building, they walked along the side of the cathedral. The buildings they passed by were all dark except for the lights over their front doors and steps. Secluded in a stand of snow laden evergreens stood an old church of grey granite. A soft glow in its elegant rose window attracted their attention. In front of its double doors stood two armed men dressed in olive drab fatigues and ski masks covered incongruously by red checked head cloths.   
  


After a quick whispered conversation with the Green Hornet, Kato walked boldly up to the front door. "Hi, can you show me the way to Pasadena?" he asked with a broad grin.   
  


"Go away, fool," growled one of the guards, pointing his AK-47 at the smiling chauffeur.   
  


Kato's grin dropped. "C'mon, don't be such a grouch. Where's your Christmas spirit?" he asked.   
  


"I said go away," the guard growled again, jabbing the machine gun's muzzle into Kato's stomach.   
  


"Jeez," Kato mumbled, turning away. Suddenly he spun around, kicking the gun out of the guard's hands. Quickly the man followed his weapon to the ground. The other guard stood frozen, the Hornet gas gun pressed against his nose.   
  


"Goodnight, my friend," the Green Hornet said as the gas whispered out.   
  


The Green Hornet and Kato stepped into the old church's entryway. Inside through the inner doors they saw a chilling tableau. Dr. Goode was on his knees, his face badly bruised, a thin stream of drying blood trailed down from his nose, spotting his pale blue suit. Three men stood over him. Two were armed with machine guns, one held a pistol against the white-haired minister's head. In strange counterpoint "Onward Christian Soliders" played over hidden speakers.   
  


Kato charged into the gunmen, knocking them to the floor as Dr. Goode scrambled out of the way. Kato dispatched one quickly in his usual efficient manner and the Green Hornet sent another to dreamland with a short whiff of Hornet gas. The Green Hornet looked up from his man to see how Kato was doing with the third and was shocked to see Kato holding the man's neck in a deadly grip. A single twist and the man would be dead.   
  


"No!" the Green Hornet shouted.   
  


Kato looked at him angrily, a disturbing feral light gleamed in his dark eyes. "He must die," he shouted back. "They must all die. They are agents of Satan. We must kill them, send them back to their master before they drag us down with them."   
  


The Green Hornet strode quickly across the room and forced the gasping man from Kato's grip, "What the Hell are you talking about?" he demanded.   
  


"They must die!" Kato said wildly as he grabbed the Green Hornet by his coat lapels. "They must all die!"   
  


The Green Hornet belted him in the chops. "Get to the damn car!" he ordered angrily, aghast at the younger man's bizarre actions.   
  


Kato rose defiantly to his feet. "You're in with them," he said. "You must be punished," he said, taking a threatening step toward the Green Hornet. 

The Green Hornet reluctantly aimed the gas gun. "Don't," he said very quietly.   
  


"Put the gun down," demanded Dr. Goode coming from the front of the church. He held one of the terrorist's machine guns in an unsteady grip.   
  


_Now what?_ the Green Hornet thought. Things were going from bad to worse. "I suggest you put that thing down before you hurt yourself," he said in a calmer voice than he felt.   
  


"No," the bruised minister said, shaking his head. "I don't think so. Not until you're safely in the hands of the police," he replied as he tightened his grip.   
  


"Is that any way to treat the men who just saved your life?" the Green Hornet asked reasonably as he edged closer to Dr. Goode. _Now if Kato just wouldn't screw things up any worse than they already are,_ he thought, feeling uncomfortably surrounded and on thin ice to boot. "Perhaps we can talk things over. Maybe we can make some kind of deal here," he said.   
  


Dr. Goode raised his weapon threateningly. "No, we will do no such thing," he declared. A crafty look came into his eyes. "It does seem that one of you has already joined my flock," he said indicating Kato who had stood stock still the entire time.   
  


"So it would seem," the Green Hornet said distastefully. "Mind control?" he asked.   
  


"You might call it that, although that is a far too simple term for what I have been trying to accomplish," Dr. Goode said as he more closely studied the Green Hornet's man.   
  


"Some sort of subliminal brainwashing, I'd guess," the Green Hornet said.   
  


"Ah," Dr. Goode said, "So you have heard of it."   
  


"I've had some small experience with it, but that was a long time ago. You must be using some very advanced equipment."   
  


"Very advanced. The best there is," Dr. Goode said with pride. "Would you like to see it?" he said pleasantly, but the gun in his hand emphasized that this was not a request to be refused. 

The Green Hornet nodded. "I'd be glad to," he said, having a good idea what the evangelist had in mind.   
  


Dr. Goode glared down at the semiconscious man at Kato's feet. "Kill him," he snapped at Kato.   
  


Wooden faced, Kato knelt and struck the man's neck with a knife edged blow. The sharp crack of breaking bone chilled the Green Hornet as much as the mad light in Goode's eyes. Goode motioned with the AK-47 for the Green Hornet to take the lead. Kato walked beside him, his position as ambiguous as his status with either man. Neither the Green Hornet's guard nor ally, if he made a single wrong move, the spray of bullets would quickly mow him down as easily as it would the Green Hornet.   
  


Following Goode's directions they walked through a maze of concrete-floored corridors. The shoes of the two masked men, crepe-soled for silence made no sound, but Goode's slick leather shoes tapped hollowly in a rhythmic cadence that echoed around them, frequently disappearing down other corridors that intersected the one they followed.   
  


Finally they came to a locked door above which was an unlit red sign. On the door was a red lettered sign warning against entering when the light was lit. Goode pulled out a set of keys and after selecting one, opened the door. Inside was a large room lined with recording and playback equipment as well as a rack of monitors and VCR's.   
  


"I take it this is where you design all of your audio and video tapes," the Green Hornet said.   
  


"Only the special ones," Dr. Goode said. "I have a very select staff that works here," Dr. Goode explained. He opened a drawer and after a few minutes of searching pulled out a cassette tape. "Very few know about this room."   
  


"Your flock would be outraged to know that you have been brainwashing them," the Green Hornet said.   
  


Dr. Goode shrugged. "Actually, I doubt that. I only reinforce what they already believe. What they feel after my services is no different from what they feel already. I just make those emotions stronger."   
  


"You play on everyone's fears and hates and make them stronger," the Green Hornet said.   
  


"Exactly," Dr. Goode said. He placed the cassette into a tape deck, pressed a button and blinking lights flashed on. "Actually I am surprised by your man's reaction. I never expected anyone to act as strongly as that."   
  


The Green Hornet looked narrowly at Kato who avoided his gaze. "Perhaps some people are more suggestible than others," he said.   
  


"Perhaps," Dr. Goode said. He motioned toward a set of grey office chairs. "Sit here, please," he said to the Green Hornet. "You," he said to Kato, "Give me one of those headphones," he ordered.   
  


Dr. Goode plugged in the headphones and gave them to the Green Hornet. "Put them on," he ordered, the AK-47 still not straying from the masked man.   
  


The Green Hornet looked at the headphones in his hands. "Before I put them on, would you mind telling me you are planning to do to me?" he asked.   
  


Dr. Goode smiled slightly, almost benevolently. "You don't need to worry. What I am planning on doing will harm you in no way. In fact, I think you will come out of this a better man."   
  


"I will be saved," the Green Hornet said.   
  


"Exactly," Dr. Goode answered. "You will be a completely changed man. All of your detestable criminal tendencies will be gone and in their place will be complete faith in the word of God and your proper place in the world we are building for the future."   
  


"I take it that faith will be in your interpretation of God's word and that the world to come is one of your design," the Green Hornet said.   
  


"Of course. Our way is the only true way. Only by our vision will the world be saved from the torments that are tearing us all apart. Only through us can peace and unity be achieved."   
  


"You keep on saying 'our' and 'we'. Are you talking about yourself and God, or are there others involved in your little scheme?" the Green Hornet asked.   
  


Dr. Goode's smile widened. "That is for me to know and for you to find out." He waved the AK-47. "Enough of these delaying tactics. Put those headphones on."   
  


The Green Hornet removed his hat and placed the headphones on his head. As he did so, he caught Kato making a quick wink and a brief flash of a smile before his face went blank again, leaving the Green Hornet doubting what he had seen, but ready for whatever might happen.   
  


Dr. Goode flipped a switch and over the headphones came the strains of 'Amazing Grace'. Suddenly the Green Hornet doubled over and fell out of the chair, clasping his ears as if in great pain. At the same time Kato roughly grabbed the weapon out of the surprised evangelist's hands.   
  


"Traitor!" Dr. Goode screamed at Kato. Looking not at the Green Hornet or Kato, but at the door to their right Dr. Goode's eyes widened. He started to say something but whatever it was, was lost in the deafening chatter of gunfire. Hit square, Dr. Goode was thrown into the bank of equipment sending up a shower of sparks. The sudden surge of electricity plunged the building into darkness as the attacker disappeared into the corridor.   
  


The Green Hornet and Kato quickly recovered. They stopped near the door with held breaths, listening for the attacker. The corridor was pitch black. Sparks flying from the shattered electronic equipment, filled the room with flashing blue white light, dangerously backlighting them. It would be a fatal mistake to rush into that darkness It would be so easy for them to be ambushed. There was silence. No heavy breathing, no clattering footsteps. He could be just beyond the door or completely out of the building. In the darkness beyond there was no way of knowing which.   
  


The electrical fire quickly went out making the room behind them as dark as the corridor ahead. Knowing at least now he would not make a backlit target, the Green Hornet moved out of the doorway, half expecting to be instantly cut down. When nothing happened he released the breath he had been unconsciously holding. The only light in the long corridor was the red glow of an exit sign near the intersection with another corridor. The Green Hornet moved toward the exit sign quietly, always keeping the wall hard against his back. Kato moved beside him, as nervously alert as he was.   
  


He thoughtfully palmed the mini-flash in his pocket. It was tempting to use, to get rid of the stygian blackness that surrounded him even if only to see the black barrel of the terrorist's AK-47 before dying. He kept the flash where it was and pulled out a small flash bomb instead. It wasn't time to use it, not yet.   
  


They neared the intersection, and paused just out the small well of light cast by the exit sign, breathlessly listening for any sound that might show where the terrorist was. The only visible light ahead was another exit sign floating in the darkness. The Green Hornet hated this creeping around the dark, not knowing what waited around the next corner, not knowing if death waited beyond or if the terrorist had been long gone. Time too, could be running out. The other cars in the parking lot showed that there were others in the complex. Others that the sudden blackout could attract, including the police. He retraced in his mind their journey through the long corridors. How much was above ground, how much under, more importantly, which walls might lead outside to freedom? The Hornet sting could easily slice through one of these walls, but if it led to another maze of corridors and rooms the mistake could be fatal. The powerful sonic weapon made a hell of a lot of noise. They were trapped in a labyrinth, the Minotaur a man with an AK-47 and nothing but glowing exit signs to lead the way out.   
  


He nearly jumped when he felt Kato's hand on his arm. Even this close he could not see the younger man's face. He held his breath, straining to hear something ahead of them, perhaps even the heartbeat of the man ahead of them. Did he hear it? The soft scrape of heavy boots on concrete. Silence. Another sound, very slight, metal, a slight bump against a wall. He hefted the flash bomb in his hand and pulled Kato's sleeve, letting him feel the small device in his hand, hoping that Kato would get the message to cover his eyes.   
  


He threw the bomb around the corner and quickly pressed his back against the wall. Even through closed eyes he could see the brilliant flash of light. A quick shout of surprise told him that his guess was right. The Green Hornet led the charge with Kato close at his heels. He lunged at the blinded ski-masked killer. Grabbing the gun still held tightly in the terrorist's hands he rolled onto his own back throwing the man into the air with a powerful thrust of his legs. The man quickly recovering, crawled to his feet. The Green Hornet grabbed at the man, but only succeeded in pulling off the ski mask, revealing in the fitful light the face of Ibn Ubayy's aide, Ibrahim.   
  


Ibrahim charged down the corridor into Kato's path. Kato moved to drop him, but at the last moment the man twisted sideways deflecting the blow off the side of his shoulder. Doggedly the terrorist reversed direction, pulling out a large curved blade that gleamed wickedly in the rapidly dying light from the flare. The Green Hornet dodged the first thrust for his belly, but the man spun on his heels and slashed downward. The Green Hornet moved quickly, but not quickly enough. The flare died as he felt the searing pain of the knife tearing into his upper arm. Reflexively he slammed an elbow toward where the man's stomach should be only to strike air.   
  


The pounding of heavy feet told them that the terrorist was heading away from them, heading for the exit. No longer fearful of an ambush they pulled out their flashlights and ran after him. They saw the terrorist ahead of them throw open an emergency exit door with a loud bang and barreled out after him.   
  


"Look!" Kato shouted, pointing to a desert camouflaged hummvee charging through the snow covered quadrangle, its heavily treaded oversized tires tearing through the thick snow, throwing up dried grass and frozen dirt. It flattened several bushes in its wild careening path and bounced off a large tree, tearing out a huge chunk of bark and wood.   
  


The Green Hornet and Kato raced for the Black Beauty and took after the ugly brown vehicle. As the terrorist's vehicle roared onto the street, the Black Beauty pulled up close to its rear bumper.   
  


  
  


"Joe! Look at that!" Ching shouted, spotting the two vehicles racing by their parked police car.   
  


"Now we'll get them!" Robinson said as he eagerly gunned the police car away from the curb, its red, white and blue lights flashing and the sirens setting up a banshee wail. "Call for back up," he told his partner.   
  


  
  


"Boss," Kato said, "Cops are on our tail."   
  


"So I've noticed," the Green Hornet growled as he opened the panel behind the front seat and folded down a console above which was a small TV screen.   
  


"Should we back off?" Kato asked. "Where there's one cop..."   
  


"There'll be more," the Green Hornet finished for him. "Just keep her steady. I want to get at least one good shot at those bastards." He pressed two buttons at the same time, sending a pair of slender rockets snaking out from the rocket pods on either side of the Black Beauty's grille. The right hand rocket stuck its target low, barely above the bumper. The other rocket went wide, uselessly burying itself into a snowbank with a spray of snow and flashing sparks.   
  


The Humvee lurched, badly crippled but not stopped. The Black Beauty continued its pursuit as the Green Hornet waited for another chance for a good shot.   
  


"Boss," Kato said, "I think we better break off. The police scanner's going crazy. They're starting to form a net around us."   
  


"I hear you," the Green Hornet said in frustration as he folded the console back into place. "Let's get out of here while we still have the chance."   
  


  
  


"They're breaking off," the young cop said to his partner, "What'll we do?"   
  


"I'm staying on the Hornet's tail. That hummer's not going to get far after a hit like that," Robinson said. "The guys won't have any trouble with them."   
  


The Black Beauty roared down a narrow back street, the police car in close pursuit. Alternately slipping on black ice and catching traction on dry pavement, Kato kept the big car barely in control. "I can't go any faster," he said through clenched teeth. We're barely making it as it is. How about a rocket or two to get them off our ass."   
  


The Green Hornet looked behind them. The bright lights of the police car were so bright that they hurt his eyes. "We can't, this road's too narrow. If they lose control, they'll pile into a light pole, or worse, into a building. I want to get rid of them, not kill them. Keep going, try to lose them any way we can." A thought occurred to him. "At the next intersection, turn left, go dark and silent, then make a right into an alley and stop. If we're lucky we'll lose them."   
  


Kato did as exactly as the Green Hornet said and was surprised to see the police car pass by their hiding place. "Nice trick," he commented wryly.   
  


"Sometimes the old ones are the best," the Green Hornet answered. He moved the fabric away from the wound in his arm and touched it gingerly, "I think it's time to call it a night."   
  


"Is it bad?" Kato asked, just realizing that the Green Hornet had been injured.   
  


"No, it's not even deep enough to need stitches, but the coat and shirt are ruined," he assured Kato.   
  


  
  


Robinson nudged his partner in the ribs. "See, I told you, I figured the bastard would try something like this." He waited patiently as the big black car backed out of the alley. When the Black Beauty was a few blocks down, he eased the police car away from the curb and followed it from a safe distance.   
  


"If we can stick with them without them knowing about it, we might be able to track them down to their hiding place," Robinson said as they followed the car through nearly empty streets. Occasionally a traffic light would separate them, but the lead car's pace was so sedate that they were always reunited at the next light. Even with the big wet snowflakes that were starting to fall heavily from the sky, their prey stayed easily in sight.   
  


They followed for several miles with the black car giving no sign it was being followed. Or that it was anywhere near the end of its night run. The slow motion pursuit continued for several miles until it led to the theater district. The last shows of the evening, put on especially late for the holiday season were all letting out, sending droves of well-dressed theater goers onto the sidewalks. Luxury cars, including Cadillacs, Lincolns, Mercedes and many others including an occasional Rolls Royce filled the street and waited at curbs as long coated doormen escorted people to their cars or tweeted silver whistles for waiting taxis.   
  


The Green Hornet's car so visible on an empty street, quickly became one luxury vehicle among many. Usually so distinctive on its own, especially when seen from the front, it melted into anonymity as it joined the heavy traffic especially in what was fast becoming easily one of the biggest snowfalls of the season.   
  


Finally they were out of the theater district and again nearly alone on a side street. Strangely the black car was heading back toward the suburbs where Robinson and his partner had first picked up the trail. Finally tiring of the slow motion pursuit, Robinson turned on the flashing lights. If the thing rabbited, at least the night would come to an end. To his surprise it pulled off the road and stopped.   
  


"Ching, get out and cover the other side and be damn careful. These guys are dangerous and tricky as Hell," he told his partner as he climbed out and pulled his gun.   
  


He warily approached the driver's side. Something was very odd. "Come on, get out with your hands up," he ordered as he stood out of the way of the opening door, ready for anything, but . . .   
  


A tall, thin, white-haired man in a grey chauffeur's livery unstretched from the car's front seat. "Excuse me sir," the chauffeur said apologetically as he timidly raised brown gloved hands into the air, "I wasn't aware that I was speeding."   
  


The rear window hummed open as a woman with grey-flecked brown hair poked her head out. "What is going on here?" she demanded angrily.   
  


Robinson holstered his gun with a sinking feeling in his gut. "I'm sorry Mayor Walsh. We were following the Green Hornet and I guess, we, uh, we must've lost him and picked you up instead," he lamely tried to explain, wondering if he had any chance of retiring at grade.   
  
  
  


IV   
  
  
  


"We might as well face it," Danielle told her brother as he again rang the doorbell at the downtown townhouse. "The place is dark and there's no sign of Dad's car. Wherever he is, he's not here."   
  


"Maybe you're right," John answered, finally releasing his hold on the doorbell. He looked up at the night sky at the large flakes lazily floating down around them. "Looks like it's a bust. Do you want to go home?" he asked, noticing that his sister was huddling more deeply into her coat.   
  


She shook her head. "Something's going on and I want to find out what it is."   
  


"What'll we do then?" he asked, leading the way back to the car.   
  


"I don't know," she said dejectedly. "Dad's not at the paper and he's not here. I have no idea where he might be."   
  


"We know he'll come home sooner or later. Let's go home and wait. When he comes in, we'll hit him with our questions then." He opened the door for his sister. "The weather's going to get nasty," he said. The snow was starting to stick to the car's roof and on the road.   
  


For several minutes they drove in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. A tall pink sign caught John's attention. "How about a donut and some coffee," he asked.   
  


"Well . . . " Danielle began.   
  


"They carry muffins and tea too," John added.   
  


Danielle smiled. "You're on, brother," she said. Her eyes suddenly widened. "John! That's it! Turn left!" she said excitedly.   
  


"What?" John said, trying to decide whether to stop, turn or go on.   
  


"The car that just drove through the intersection. That's the one in Mike's pictures. The one you said you saw Dad getting out of," she explained hurriedly.   
  


John turned left and was able to catch sight of the big black car a few blocks away. "Are you sure?" he asked.   
  


"Positive," she said, "Don't lose him."   
  


The black car continued on, entering an area of warehouses and small industry, totally unaware of John and Danielle following behind at a discrete distance. It turned a corner. By the time they had rounded it the car had disappeared.   
  


"Where'd it go to?" Danielle said, not believing the empty road ahead of them.   
  


"Maybe we just lost sight of them," John said, driving ahead a few more blocks.   
  


"It's no good," Danielle said finally. "We must've lost them." She bit her lip thoughtfully. "Go back to where we lost them. Maybe we missed something."   
  


John turned the car around and drove past where they had last seen the mystery car. "I don't see anything. This is the only way they could've gone. There are only dead end alleys off this road."   
  


"A car can't just disappear," Danielle said puzzled.   
  


John stopped the car, grabbed a flashlight and stepped out, frowning in thought. He began walking back down the road sweeping the flash ahead of him, pausing only when he heard the car door open and slam shut.   
  


Danielle shuffled through the thickening snow. "What are you looking for?" she asked.   
  


"Look," John said, pointing at the road. "Here are our tire tracks. Ordinary snow tires, see?"   
  


Danielle nodded her understanding and he continued, "Now this is the black car's track. It's heavy, a lot heavier than ours. You can tell by how deep it is."   
  


"Looks like a rattlesnake pattern," Danielle supplied.   
  


"Yeah," John answered. He continued walking, following the distinctive pattern that was quickly disappearing under the rapidly falling snow. Then he stopped. "The tracks seem to stop here," he said, crouching to lightly sweep the snow away. "Wait a minute," he said, noticing something. "Look at this."   
  


Danielle crouched down beside her brother. "Looks like brush marks," she said.   
  


"That's what they did. They used brooms to hide their tracks." He stood up. "They must be heading for their home base. Somewhere there must be some kind of secret entrance around here," he guessed.   
  


"But there's nothing around here," Danielle said. "Just that dead end alley."   
  


John walked down the alley, occasionally stopping to examine the ground. "Dani," he said, "They did go this way."   
  


"You're kidding," she said. "That's impossible. It's a dead end."   
  


John shrugged and paced along the alley's back wall where a tattered billboard advertising a breath mint was hung. "Odd place for a billboard," he commented.   
  


"It's old, maybe traffic patterns were different when it was first put up," Danielle suggested.   
  


Her brother checked the billboard more closely. "You know this isn't as beat up as it looks. Not if it's as old as it looks." He touched the sign and ran his fingers along its surface. He stopped suddenly and stared at the sign. "I'll be dammed!" he exclaimed.   
  


"What?"   
  


"The dammed thing is split in half. See? The man and woman separate," he explained, showing her an indistinct line between the kissing couple.   
  


"Odd place for an animated sign," Danielle said.   
  


"But that's it," John said in a rush, "This isn't an animated sign, see the division goes all the way down to the ground. This is the Green Hornet's secret entrance!"   
  


"But where does it lead?" she asked.   
  


John shoved his cold hands into his pockets, glowering at the kissing couple. "Dammed if I know," he growled.   
  


"I wonder . . . " Danielle began.   
  


"What?"   
  


"Dad was living in the townhouse before he married Mom. Right?"   
  


"Yeah."   
  


She walked quickly back to the car, John close behind her, wondering what his sister was up to. She reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a city map and stretched it on the car's hood. "Can I have the flashlight for a moment?" she asked.   
  


"Sure."   
  


"We're here," she said, shining the light on the map. "And this is where the townhouse is," she continued, tracing a finger along the road they had followed.   
  


John's eyes widened. "And if we suppose that this alley connects with some others, here and here." He pointed on the map. "Then there would be a direct route between here and the townhouse."   
  


"And all of it away from prying eyes," Danielle ended the thought for her brother. "I'll bet the townhouse won't be empty now," she said.   
  


"Let's go and see," John said, folding the map and getting into the car.   
  


  
  


"The place is still dark," John said when they pulled up to the townhouse for the second time that night. "Do you think we might be wrong?" he asked.   
  


Danielle shrugged. "I don't think so." She frowned in thought. "Do you still have the key to the townhouse?" she asked.   
  


John checked his key ring. "Yeah, I do," he said, "But do you think it's right for us to let ourselves in?"   
  


"It's the only way we're going to find out what's going on," she answered.   
  


Together they entered the townhouse. A single light had been left on in the entryway, but otherwise everything was dark. The flagstone entryway widened away from them leading down a few steps to a sunken living room dominated by a huge brick and stone fireplace where a banked fire glowed dimly. On either side of the fireplace were woven wood sliding panels, one of which led to an office and the other leading to a suite of rooms that once belonged to Lee's father, Kato. To their right running along the edge of the entryway and ending at the base on the steps that led into the living room was a large brick lined planter. Stairs to the second floor rose from the entryway and over the planter. Between the front door and stairs another door led to the garage. Britt's voice echoing from the garage told John and Danielle that perhaps soon the truth of their father's night time disappearances would finally be discovered.   
  


"If you ever pull a hair-brained stunt like that again...," he was saying as he opened the door.   
  


"I had to, Goode already had the drop on us. I had to do something to catch him off guard," Lee protested. He was wearing a black chauffeur's uniform, a chauffeur's cap and a plastic black mask as he stepped into the entryway. "Damn," he said softly, the first to notice John and Danielle standing there.   
  


Wearing a long dark green overcoat, a matching hat and carrying a dark green mask in his hand Britt followed Lee up the short flight of stairs from the garage. Seeing John and Danielle standing expectantly in the entryway, he echoed Lee's 'damn'.   
  


"Uh, I'll go get the first aid kit upstairs," Lee volunteered, quickly retreating up the stairs before Britt could say a word.   
  


"How did you get in here?" Britt asked.   
  


"Spare keys," John said, hold up the key on his key ring. "You gave me a copy a few years ago so that I could keep an eye on the place whenever you and Mom were out of town," he explained. "By the way, I love the trick billboard. Do you have any other stuff like that around here. Say a secret passage or two?" he asked. "I always thought that kind of stuff went out with medieval castles, but I could see where something like that could come in handy."   
  


"Dad," Danielle said, pushing past her brother. "Why in the world do you need a first aid kit? Have you been hurt?" she asked.   
  


Britt nodded reluctantly. "It's nothing really," he said, trying to unbutton his coat with one hand. "The skin's hardly broken."   
  


Danielle's eyes widened in shock, noticing for the first time that the white bandage wrapped around his upper left arm had a large ugly red stain. "Oh, my God. You've been hurt! What have you been up to?" she demanded as she followed him to the long couch in front of the fireplace.   
  


"John, could you get the fire going?" Britt asked his son who had followed them into the livingroom.   
  


"Sure Dad," John said, grabbing the poker and stirring the fire back to life. He tossed a log onto the fire and wiped his hands free of the flakes of bark. "How did it happen?" he asked.   
  


"Yes, how did it happen?" Danielle echoed. "What in the world are you trying to prove in that get up?" she demanded, as she helped him remove the blood soaked bandage from his arm. She bit her lip, trying to keep her hands from shaking when she noticed how deep the wound really was.   
  


"I wasn't trying to prove anything," Britt snapped. "I was trying to find out who bombed the Daily Sentinel."   
  


John rested a hip on the couch's arm and accepted the first aid kit from Lee who was trying to avoid Danielle's accusing glare. "Did you find out anything?" he asked his father as he passed the kit to his sister.   
  


"Not much," Britt answered as Danielle helped him remove his coat and shirt. "Because of the letter the cops found at the Sentinel, we checked out the Aryan Pride and Purity group. I don't think that they're the ones who did it. The bomb was too amateurish for them."   
  


"Was that where you were tonight?" John asked.   
  


Britt shook his head, then winced as Danielle cleaned his wound with antiseptic. "No, we were at Dr. Goode's church. After the Ayatollah Abd Allah was murdered, we figured that it would be a good idea to ask him a few questions since he seemed to be very interested in stopping the conference," he explained.   
  


"But why this Green Hornet business?" Danielle asked, wrapping a clean bandage around Britt's arm. "Why couldn't you have asked him questions without this charade?" she asked, unsuccessfully trying to hide her growing agitation. All of her life she had accepted her father's scarred body as much as part of him as the color of his eyes or the sound of his laughter. Now she was starting to realize what those scars meant.   
  


"People usually answer the Green Hornet's questions more readily than Britt Reid's. They know he won't settle for 'no comment', Britt explained.   
  


"You talk like you and the Green Hornet are two separate people," Danielle commented.   
  


"We are," Britt answered. Danielle looked at him sharply. "In a way," he added. "I have to keep them separate in order to make sure people don't guess they're the same man."   
  


"You certainly were successful in keeping your family in the dark," she said angrily. "Or did you ever let Mom in on your dirty 'little' secret."   
  


"She's known about it for a long time," Britt said, "Long before we were married."   
  


"Then it was a conspiracy between the two of you to keep us from knowing the truth," she said accusingly.   
  


"Dani, please," John said. "I'm sure Dad had his reasons. I'd like to know what went on tonight. Dad..."   
  


Britt looked at his daughter who had begun to pace in front of the fireplace. "We arrived at Dr. Goode's church just in time to stop some terrorists from executing him. I think they were out to avenge the Ayatollah's death." He paused, looking up at Lee who had withdrawn even further from them, looking badly out of place and obviously wishing he was somewhere else. "In his 'gratitude' Goode got the drop on us and tried to convert the Green Hornet with the same brainwashing technique he was using on his congregation," he continued. "We were able to turn the tables on him, though."   
  


"Brainwashing?" John said. "He's been brainwashing people?"   
  


Britt nodded. "He's been using subliminal techniques to spread his messages of racial and religious hate. I have a feeling that he's not in this by himself. Unfortunately before I could find out for sure, one of the terrorists came to, tracked us down to Goode's dubbing room and killed him."   
  


"Is that how you got hurt?" John asked.   
  


"Yeah," Britt answered. "I zigged when I should have zagged and he got me with one of those Arab pigstickers," he said wryly.   
  


Danielle suddenly stopped pacing. "I can't believe you, John." she said angrily. "All of our lives we've been lied to. We were led to believe that our father was one of the good guys, that he sincerely believed everything he wrote about truth and justice, that he was on the side of the angels. Now it turns out to be all a pack of lies. Our entire lives are nothing but a hypocrisy, smoke and mirrors. Don't you understand? Our father is the Green Hornet, the worst criminal this city, Hell, this country has ever seen. And you act like it doesn't mean a thing to you."   
  


"Dani," Britt said, rising to his feet. "You don't understand..." he began.   
  


"No," she said, avoiding his touch like it was poison. "You're wrong. Before, I didn't understand. I always believed that my father was a white knight, a crusader for 'truth, justice and the American way'," she said bitterly. "One day after one of our pool parties when I was a teenager, one of my friends asked me about the rumors about how you got your limp and those scars. I was proud to tell them that some gangsters had tried to stop you from writing the truth about their crimes. Now I know it was all a lie. That the truth was that it was nothing more than an underworld battle over turf."   
  


Britt grabbed her, pulling her close to him, trying to cut through her anger and shame. "Dani, give me a chance to explain," he begged.   
  


"No!" she screamed, angrily beating at his chest with balled fists. "I'm not listening to you anymore! I hate you!" she sobbed, tearing away from his arms, her hair flying from the neat french braid that had held it in place. "I hate you! I hate you!" she screamed as she fled out of the house, leaving three men behind, uncomfortably aware of her pain and helpless in its face. 


	5. Battle at the Red Knight

Combat at the Red Knight   
  


Chapter Five   
  


I   
  


Danielle ran until her lungs burned from the freezing air. When she couldn't run anymore, she walked, head down, watching her feet kick through the newly fallen snow. White against her black boots, it would cover her foot up to the ankle and then fall away in slow motion. She didn't care where she was going, or how long she wandered. She just kept on moving, trying to escape her family secret. A steel railing appeared, blocking her path. Finally she looked up and saw slate grey waves restlessly slipping over half submerged boulders. It wouldn't take much to climb over the railing and leap into that cold, cold water.   
  


She hated the cold. She sniffed and rubbed the tears away with an ungloved hand. Her nose was running. She started to use the sleeve of her coat when her mother's voice from years ago, centuries ago it seemed, told her to use something else. She rummaged through her pockets, her purse was back there, until she found one, crumpled, previously used. It didn't matter, it was dry and one corner was still usable. It would do the job. It would have to.   
  


She blew her nose noisily, then pushed the hair that had fallen free from the dozens of hair pins that had held it in place away from her face. Slowly she realized that the sun had risen and that the sky was a startling shade of blue. Off in the distance a winter sailor skimmed the sun flecked water under a bright red and yellow sail. High above a gull wheeled lazily through the air. She had no idea how long she had been standing there when she heard a voice behind her.   
  


"Nice morning."   
  


Danielle turned around," Hi, Uncle Frank," she said, greeting F.P. Scanlon, an old family friend. "Did Dad tell you what happened?"   
  


Scanlon nodded. "Yes, he did."   
  


"Everything?"   
  


Again he nodded.   
  


She wrapped her arms around herself. "How long have you known about Dad's..." she hesitated, searching for the right word. "About his 'hobby'?" she bit out.   
  


Frank shrugged uncomfortably, "A long time," he admitted.   
  


"Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded. "Why didn't he tell me?" She bit back the burning tears that were filling her eyes. "My whole life has been a lie. Why didn't he tell me?" she asked, feeling the pain coming back over her. She fell into his arms, wanting to resist, yet badly needing something to anchor her.   
  


"Dani," he said, "Nobody lied to you, especially your father."   
  


"But..." she began, "He never told me, he just let me go through life believing that I..., that he, was something he really wasn't," she sobbed against his chest.   
  


"Dani, that wasn't a lie. Everything your fathers has ever done was done because he believed it was right," he said.   
  


"But he's the Green Hornet. A monster, a criminal, a gangster who has the whole city afraid of him. All those editorials, everything he ever taught me about justice, about doing what's right. He lied to me," she cried, pulling away from him.   
  


Frank grasped her firmly. "No, it wasn't a lie. Britt is a very good man. Everything he has ever done was done in the name of justice. Including the Green Hornet. You have no idea how it was when your grandfather died. All around him Britt's world was falling apart. He couldn't stand by to see the city, his city, continue to be corrupted by the same men who destroyed his father. He became the Green Hornet so that he could fight those people who were using the law to further their illegal ends. The Green Hornet is just a tool that your father uses to reach people that the law can't," he explained.   
  


"You want me to believe that he's really some kind of masked crime fighter?" she said shakily. "I'm not a kid. That kind of stuff is only in comic books. It's not for real."   
  


Frank shook his head sadly. "Maybe comic book heroes aren't real, but your father is." He smiled sadly. "Don't you think this world could use some real heroes?'   
  


She nodded slightly. "Dad was always my hero. I've always looked up at his. I guess every little girl looks up to her father. But a mask? That's just too unbelievable."   
  


"Unbelievable, that just about describes your father and what he's done, especially as the Green Hornet. A lot of people owe their lives to that so-called master criminal," he explained.   
  


"If this is all true, why didn't he tell me? Why did he let Mike Axford tell us all those stories about how evil the Green Hornet was? Or was that all part of some elaborate ruse to keep John and me in the dark?" she said bitterly.   
  


"That wasn't part of any secret plan to keep the two of you in the dark. Mike Axford still doesn't know a thing about Britt and the Green Hornet being the same man. Even if he was told the truth, I don't think he'd believe it."   
  


"I still can't understand why we weren't told," Danielle insisted.   
  


"You weren't told because Britt wanted to put that part of his life behind him. I think he wanted to forget about that part of his life. It made it easier for him to accept the fact that part of his life was over. You see, he actually was a victim of an attempted gangland execution. That part of the story was true, at least as far as we went. Only it wasn't Britt Reid who was the target, it was the Green Hornet. Britt allowed his determination to get the man responsible for his father's death get the better of him and he nearly died because of that. Kato left because he felt responsible for not stopping Britt, so that even if Britt had been physically able to be the Green Hornet again, he couldn't. Not without Kato."   
  


"And then Lee came along and started it all up again," Danielle guessed.   
  


"Yes, that's basically what happened. Kato had been murdered and Lee needed Britt's help to get his killers," Scanlon explained. "In a way things went full circle. The man who was behind Kato's murder was not only the same man who crippled your father during the attempted execution of the Green Hornet, but was the one who poisoned your grandfather while he was in prison."   
  


"That's unbelievable," she said.   
  


"It's the truth," Scanlon said simply.   
  


Danielle studied him closely for a few minutes. "Did you know about Dad and the Green Hornet from the beginning?" she asked.   
  


"No, not from the beginning. At first I believed like everybody else that the Green Hornet was a criminal. I didn't go so far as to think of him as a master criminal. That I did feel was too farfetched even though Mike Axford kept on harping about it in every article he wrote on the Hornet. I basically felt that while the Green Hornet seemed to be a danger to the underworld, he was no threat to the average law abiding citizen. After all, in a way the Green Hornet was making my life easier because every crook who ran up against him wound being left for the police along with enough evidence to convict them. Of course Axford was claiming this was the Green Hornet's way of eliminating his competitors, and after a hornet seal was found at the murder of a major crime lord, I was inclined to agree with him."   
  


"What changed your mind?"   
  


"It happened when I was investigating a counterfeit label printing scheme in which a gang was putting designer labels on bogus beauty products and then selling those goods at a fraction of the cost of the real stuff. The worse thing about the scheme was that the bogus products were dangerous and some women were seriously hurt because of it. Unfortunately, I wasn't very good at sneaking around and got caught. I learned a lot about their scheme including the fact that they had used a counterfeit hornet seal to pin a competing gang lord's murder on the Hornet. They were just about to do the same thing to me with the same murder weapon when the Green Hornet arrived just in time to save my life."   
  


"So that got you to thinking about the other crimes pinned on the Green Hornet?"   
  


"Exactly. The more I investigated the Green Hornet, the more obvious it was to me that we were on the same side."   
  


"And then he finally told you who he really was?"   
  


"Actually that took some time, but I was working with Britt a lot and after seeing the Green Hornet a few times, I started noticing some similarities between the two men. The Green Hornet had to be wealthy enough to afford the car and all the gadgets, and when you consider physical characteristics such as height, weight and physical condition, things start to narrow down quite a bit. Also there aren't that many men around with light green eyes. That was the dead give away to me."   
  


"Why didn't other people think of that?"   
  


"Because they would have to consider that either Britt Reid was really a criminal or that the Green Hornet wasn't. That's Mike's blind spot. In his eyes Britt can do no wrong, and the Green Hornet can do no right. Besides not many people have the presence of mind to really study the Green Hornet when they meet him. All they see is the mask. Just like with a police officer, all you really see is the badge and the uniform."   
  


"So what did you do? Did you just tell him that you thought he was the Green Hornet?"   
  


"Yes, when I felt confident enough in my evidence, I confronted him with it. At first he tried to convince me I was wrong but finally in the end he admitted that I was right."   
  


"Just like that?"   
  


"Just like that. I think in a way he was relieved. He knew I was getting close, and he was glad that I was willing to listen to him instead of publically accusing him and having him arrested."   
  


"Why didn't you? Even if you didn't think he was really a criminal, why didn't you arrest him and leave the decision up to the courts? I would think that would have been your duty as District Attorney," Danielle asked, knowing that Scanlon was normally very strict in adhering not only to the spirit of the law but to the letter of it as well.   
  


"Because I had to give him the chance that I denied your grandfather."   
  


"What?"   
  


"I was the man who prosecuted Henry Reid, your grandfather."   
  


Danielle stared at him, her mouth agape. "How did it happen?" she finally said when she was over her shock enough to say something.   
  


"It was during my first term in office. I was a newcomer to this city and didn't know that the people who ran my campaign did it because the party machine needed somebody with a clean reputation to do their dirty work for them," Scanlon admitted bitterly. "I had a few early successes, but they were engineered to make me feel overconfident and to make me look good in the public's eyes.   
  


"Then they handed me Henry Reid's case. I felt from the start that there was something wrong about the case. Henry Reid didn't strike me as a killer. I couldn't understand why they wanted to push the case through the courts so quickly. I didn't know then that most of the evidence had been manufactured. The last thing they wanted me to do was to take my time to review and double check it.   
  


"My so-called friends convinced me that my reservations were just a result of inexperience. They told me that if I didn't pursue the case it would be the same as admitting that I was an incompetent. Then they started applying pressure, saying that if I failed to get a murder conviction they would make sure that I never worked in the legal profession again.   
  


"I should have taken the hint and quit instead of prosecuting a man whose guilt I had doubts about, but I didn't. I kept on hoping that somehow I would be able to secure a more lenient sentence, that I would uncover some evidence that would prove Henry's innocence. What I didn't know was that I was just part of the window dressing. Your grandfather never had a chance. The judge was as corrupt as the rest of the city government and most of the jury had been bought off. Even if I had not appeared a single day in court, the verdict would have still been guilty and the sentence would still have been for the maximum."   
  


"So you see," he continued, "I had to give him the chance that was denied your grandfather, because I felt he had the potential to be the greatest force for good this city had ever seen."   
  


"But he knew that you were the man who put his father into prison." Danielle pointed out, "I would have thought that he would have been worried that you would do the same thing to him."   
  


"I think that's why I told him I knew about him being the Green Hornet. I needed to gain his trust."   
  


"But why?" Danielle asked.   
  


"Because although I felt Britt Reid was a good man, I was afraid that if there wasn't anyone around to give him some guidance, and you must remember that he was quite young then, that he might be tempted to cross that thin line he was dancing along and actually become a criminal, or worse lose further faith in the system and decide to become judge, jury and executioner of the people he was fighting," he explained.   
  


"I don't see how the two of you could have trusted each other, "she said.   
  


"I don't think your father trusted me at first, but he did need somebody on the inside of the police, somebody who could give him information on suspects and evidence that he couldn't get any other way. In return for keeping his secret, Britt, as the Green Hornet would turn over to the police major crime figures with enough evidence to send them away for a very long time. The trust came slowly, but it helped that eventually I was able to uncover the evidence that proved that your grandfather had been framed and I was able to clear his name because of it."   
  


"And so the two of you benefitted from this little arrangement of yours," Danielle said.   
  


"Yes, we both benefitted and so did this city. We didn't always see eye to eye. Such as the time when Britt was framed for a murder that happened at his own birthday party. He chose to run and when I tried to stop him, he slugged me." Scanlon ran a hand along his jaw, remembering the force of Britt's blow. "I'm surprised he didn't break my jaw. But Britt and the Green Hornet never let me down, even sometimes at great personal cost. He was always able to come through for me. I feel very fortunate to have him as one of my closest friends."   
  
  
  


"And so you want me to give him a chance now," Danielle said.   
  


"Yes I do," Scanlon said. "Everyone is worried sick about you. Let me take you home," he urged.   
  


"I can't. Not yet. I need some time to think," she answered.   
  


"Will you at least let me take you to my place and let your family know that you're safe?" he asked. "Grace wouldn't mind having you over. She always loves to have company, even if it's unannounced."   
  


Danielle hesitated. She was tired and cold and needed some time to absorb everything she had found out.   
  


"If you don't want to stay with Grace and me, you could at least make a few phone calls to some of your friends and see if one of them will put you up for few days," Scanlon suggested.   
  


Finally Danielle relented. "Don't worry," she said, "Staying with you would be fine." She smiled slightly. "Maybe you can help me figure out the right thing to do, just like you do for my father,"she said.   
  
  
  


II   
  
  
  


Danielle's soft mouth hardened into a tight frown as Lee walked across the aerobic center's wooden floor. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.   
  


Lee tried a charming grin. "I thought I'd try out a class here," he answered lightly. His dark eyes quickly took in the twin crescents of sweat that had soaked her leotard under her breasts and followed the dampness down to the small swell of her stomach.   
  


She blushed angrily. "Fine. The next class starts in 15 minutes," she snapped.   
  


Lee forced his eyes upward, only to be distracted by a bead of sweat rolling down her long graceful neck before disappearing between the swell of breasts restrained by a brightly colored exercise bra.   
  


"Get your mind out of the gutter, buster," Danielle said as she pulled an oversize sweatshirt over her head.   
  


"Sorry, I've never been to a women's aerobic class before. I didn't know women sweat," he said, adding mentally, _In such interesting ways._   
  


Danielle glared at him, making him wonder if she had read his mind. "That's the only way you can tell if you've been working hard enough," she said.   
  


"Yeah, I guess you're right about that. Good workout today?" he asked.   
  


"It's always good. You ought to try it someday. See if you can keep up with the 'weaker sex'," she challenged.   
  


"Maybe I will," Lee said, trying to keep up with her as she hurriedly walked through the building's back door.   
  


"How did you find me?" she asked.   
  


"Mr. Scanlon said you were here. I thought I'd drive you back since he said you walked here." He looked up at the heavy grey clouds in the sky. "It might snow again."   
  


"Thanks, but no thanks. I already have a ride."   
  


"Yeah, Mr. Scanlon said that you were going out after your aerobics class. I thought we might talk a little."   
  


"We can talk after I get back to Uncle Frank's house. My ride will be here any minute now."   
  


"Mr. Scanlon said you were planning on getting back late. I need to talk to you now," Lee insisted.   
  


"Is Dad alright?" she asked.   
  


"He's okay, and so is your mother."   
  


"Than why do you need to talk to me now instead of later? Are you two going out tonight?"   
  


Lee nodded. "Yeah. I think you should make up with your father."   
  


"Does it look that bad?"   
  


Lee shrugged. "I don't think so, but that's not why I think you should talk to him. He's worried about you, and I feel kind of responsible about what happened. It would take a load off him, if you could just talk to him," he pleaded.   
  


Danielle angrily turned to him. "You know, you should feel responsible for this whole mess. If it hadn't been for you my father wouldn't be taking his own life into his hands like this."   
  


"Yeah, it is my fault, it's all my fault, but dammit haven't you noticed the change in him. I bet you have. I know John has. He says it's like your father is a whole different man. That's because of the Green Hornet. All these years he was really miserable not being the Hornet. Now that he's doing it again, it's like he's a new man now. I don't think I could stop him now even if I wanted to."   
  


"My God, Lee, he's too old to be running around this city like some kid in a Halloween mask. What if he gets killed or seriously hurt? Are you going to abandon him like your father did?" she demanded. The look of pain on Lee's face made her instantly regret her harsh words. "I'm sorry, that came out wrong. I didn't mean it that way."   
  


A honking horn from a small blue car caught her attention. "That's my ride. I got to go now." She bit her lip uncertainly. "Give me some more time to think." She grasped his arm hurriedly as the car honked again. "Tell Mom and Dad I love them. For God's sake take care of my father. And yourself too," she added quickly before trotting away toward the waiting car.   
  
  
  
  
  


III   
  
  
  
  
  


"What do you think Ibn Ubayy wants?" Kato asked as he guided the Black Beauty to the importer Hamidi's house.   
  


"I have no idea," the Green Hornet answered. "We should've have gone to see him right after seeing his aide at Goode's church."   
  


"Couldn't be helped, besides you were hurt, we had to take care of your arm."   
  


"You're probably right, but if we had, we could've avoided that whole scene with the kids. Now Ibn Ubayy's had the chance to cover his tracks. We haven't a snowball's chance in Hell of proving he was behind Goode's murder."   
  


"Yet, he was the one who tipped the police that his aide was at Goode's church. Maybe the aide was a renegade just like Ibn Ubayy claimed," Kato suggested.   
  


"Maybe, we'll find out when we talk to him."   
  


"Strange thing though, him asking Britt Reid to contact the Green Hornet for him."   
  


"Very odd," the Green Hornet agreed. "He wouldn't say why he wanted to talk to the Green Hornet. He just asked me to trust him, although after Goode's murder, I don't see how I can."   
  


"I guess that's the handy thing about the Green Hornet, you'll find out what he wants anyway."   
  


"Damn right," the Green Hornet said, a harshness creeping into his voice.   
  


Kato glanced back at the Green Hornet, noticing him shifting uneasily in the back seat. "How's your arm?" he asked.   
  


"It's fine."   
  


"You sure?" Kato pressed, receiving a sharp glare in return. "Have you talked to Danielle yet?"   
  


"No. She's still not talking to me. She's still too shook up. Casey and Frank tell me I've got to give her a little more time." The Green Hornet sighed heavily. "A Hell of a Christmas this is turning out to be. At least John seems to be taking the news well. He was always the more sensible of the two."   
  


"Yeah, he begged me to let him check out the Black Beauty."   
  


"I didn't know that. What did he say?"   
  


"He was really interested in everything. He even had some suggestions how we could improve things and even offered to help out with them. He even suggested that we think about a new car. This one's fine, but a chance to build a new one..."   
  


"For a new Green Hornet," the Green Hornet interrupted.   
  


"I don't understand."   
  


"I'm afraid John's thinking about stepping into the role."   
  


"That's an idea. You know, keep it in the family, make it a sort of family tradition."   
  


"No way. I'm not about to let that happen. This is my curse, I'm not about to wish it on my own son. When I die, the Green Hornet dies with me."   
  


"But why? You've told me yourself that you're proud of what you've done as the Green Hornet. The city needed the Green Hornet when you first put on that mask, just like it needs him now. That won't change in the future. If he can't do it, who will?"   
  


"No one. There are other ways to do what the Green Hornet does. Other cities don't have the Green Hornet and they do fine without him or some other fool wearing a mask. If you're worried about what might happen to you when I decide to give this up permanently, don't be, that's why I'm training you at the Daily Sentinel. If you're not happy with that . . . "   
  


"No, that's not it at all. I love what I'm doing at the Sentinel, I wouldn't ever want to give it up."   
  


"Then why are you wanting to continue this? Why are you pushing for John to come into it?" the Green Hornet demanded.   
  


"I'm not pushing. It's just that I think it's important to him. And it's important to me."   
  


"Why?"   
  


"Because it's a way for me to fight crime."   
  


"You could do that as a cop."   
  


"It's not the same."   
  


The Green Hornet studied the passing scene for a moment, then quietly said, "I know what you mean. There's something very seductive about what we're doing, isn't it? There's a kind of rush, an excitement in what we do, chasing around the city in this car, snubbing our noses at the cops, being feared by the most dangerous criminals in town. It's addictive, like some sort of drug. Your father always said that I got 'on the jazz' too much, that I enjoyed playing 'head games' too much. He was right. I do. I thought I had gotten over it, but now I know I haven't. I couldn't stop before and it almost killed me, and, God forgive me, but I don't think I can give it up again, even if it might kill me this time."   
  


"I understand what you're saying, but I don't think John would succumb to that kind of temptation. He strikes me as a level headed guy. I think he'd make a good Green Hornet."   
  


"You don't understand. I'm not worried about John letting the Green Hornet get to his head. I know he would make a good Green Hornet. If I had to choose someone to follow in my footsteps, he would be the one I'd chose. The problem is that I've lost so many people close to me, including your father. If John chose to become the Green Hornet . . . " He swallowed hard. "I don't want to bury my own son."   
  


"I understand sir," Kato said softly.   
  


For several minutes there was an uncomfortable silence between the two men, lost in their own thoughts. Suddenly a familiar vehicle rocketed past them, the desert camouflaged humvee, still bearing the singe marks from the Black Beauty's rockets.   
  


Kato shot back to the Green Hornet, "Do you want to go after them?" he asked.   
  


"No, they're heading away from Nasser's place. Something's happened there."   
  


  
  


The importer's store was completely on fire by the time the Green Hornet and Kato arrived. Nasser and his pajama-clad family huddled across the street staring fearfully at the ruins of their home. Ibn Ubayy came to the curb as the Black Beauty pulled up.   
  


"What happened?" the Green Hornet asked as he motioned for the Arab leader to get into the car.   
  


"I don't know," he answered. "I was arguing with Ibrahim. I told him he must give himself up to the authorities, that what he had done was wrong and that he was endangering my mission here. He wouldn't listen to me. None of them would."   
  


"So they set the place on fire?" the Green Hornet asked.   
  


"No. We were bombed. I don't know who did it, but it wasn't Ibrahim or his men." Ibn Ubayy shook his head sadly. "We were coming so close to a peace agreement and now this happens. Ibrahim is now even more convinced that violence is the only way."   
  


"Do you know what they're planning on doing?"   
  


"I'm not sure, however just before he and his men left Ibrahim said he would turn the devil's own weapon against himself. He said something about us all being martyrs for the jihad in a western sunrise. It doesn't make any sense to me." Ibn Ubayy said.   
  


"Me neither," Kato commented.   
  


The Green Hornet thought for a moment, then he remembered Lowrey's most recent report. "It does to me. Kato, head for the Red Knight building. West."   
  


Screaming fire engines and police cars passed the Black Beauty as it raced for the nearest on ramp to the freeway. Looking back at them the Green Hornet noticed one of the police cars make a wild U-turn and begin following them with strobing lights and a wailing siren.   
  


"You want me to lose them, boss?" Kato asked.   
  


"No, we could be heading into the middle of world war III. The more help we have the better," the Green Hornet answered.   
  


"They won't be any help if a bunch of their buddies get in our way," Kato commented grimly.   
  


The Green Hornet nodded. "Turn on the police scanner, let's see if we can pick up who's tailing us."   
  


The Black Beauty's police scanner ran through a babble of excited voices, some of them barely understandable, but one voice came through clearly, mentioning being in hot pursuit. Obviously the police car behind them. The Green Hornet opened the panel behind the front seat and grabbed the mike from its holder. "What's the frequency?" he asked as he began sliding the tuner on the radio across the bands.   
  


Kato gave him the numbers as the Green Hornet slid across to the position, "Attention Charlie 124, this is the Green Hornet. I know you are in pursuit of us."   
  


"Kind of hard to miss them," Kato muttered under his breath.   
  


Grimacing at Kato's comment the Green Hornet continued, "We are on a life or death mission. We are asking for your cooperation."   
  


A voice filtered through the radio, "Are you asking us to believe that kind of crap. Life or Death? Isn't that kind of overdoing things?"   
  


"I know it sounds melodramatic, but the fate of the entire city, if not the whole world hangs in the balance."   
  


"That bad? Huh?" the voice returned sarcastically.   
  


"I'm asking you to trust us. We need a clear path to our destination. You know we have the means to get rid of you or anyone else who gets in our way. All I'm asking is that you and your buddies stay out of our way. You can follow us if you want, but don't try to stop us."   
  


"So what's the life or death situation?" the voice said, "Aliens invading the Earth, or a Russian invasion?"   
  


"No, there's a band of Arab terrorists who are trying to steal an A bomb from a bunch of neo-Nazi's," the Green Hornet said, knowing that even he didn't believe his own words, never mind expecting his pursuers to believe him. He could picture the policemen in the car behind them doubling over in laughter at his outrageous explanation.   
  


There was a long silence, then the voice returned. "That's mighty farfetched Hornet . . . "   
  


"I don't care if you believe me, or not. Just stay out of my way or we will blast anyone who tries to stop us," the Green Hornet said harshly as he spotted other police cars charging up a nearby on ramp.   
  


There was another long silence, but on the police scanner the Green Hornet heard rapid chatter on the police band as decisions were being made between police headquarters and the growing line of police cars behind them. "What will it be?" the Green Hornet demanded.   
  


"We'll stay out of your way," the voice finally returned," but if this turns out to be some kind of wild stunt, your ass will be ours."   
  


The Green Hornet shrugged even though he was aware that the officer on the other end could not see him, "Just stay out of our way," he said before keying off the mike.   
  


"You are aware, my friend," Ibn Ubayy said, "that by bringing in the police, you may very well be captured by them."   
  


"I know that, but I'd rather be in jail than be radioactive dust," the Green Hornet answered grimly.   
  


Ibn Ubayy nodded in admiration. "His Majesty Prince Rafil said you would be a good man to seek if I needed help. He was right."   
  


The Black Beauty traveled at top speed to the Red Knight building trailing an unusual parade of police cars behind it. While the Black Beauty usually traveled the streets unnoticed by design, now it led a pack of screaming and flashing police cars. All traffic on the freeway cleared quickly out of their way, quickly coming to a stop on the shoulder as drivers stared unbelievingly at the big black car and its entourage. The Green Hornet looked out behind them. He had never expected this to happen. Well, he mentally amended, he had envisioned a scene much like this many times, but with the Black Beauty cast as fleeing the pursuing police, not leading them into the fray. He just hoped that his hunch paid off, otherwise they'd look like idiots and have a near impossible chance at getting away as free men.   
  


He wanted to put on a confident front in front of the Arab leader and, especially, Kato. However he had a nasty feeling in his gut that he was wading into something that was way over his head. He'd almost rather find nothing at the Red Knight than to wind up in the middle of a vicious fire fight between terrorists, neo-Nazi's and cops. Even with the Black Beauty's firepower, the Green Hornet was not some kind of super soldier of fortune, but a schemer and strategist who specialized in working in the background. Even his weapons and fighting techniques were designed to be non-lethal. Now he could be very well heading into the middle of a war, he might not be equipped either physically or mentally to win at all costs.   
  


He tried to shake the chill that crept up his back and settled into his shoulders, making them as tight as a board. If his hunch was wrong, if Ibrahim had headed somewhere else, if he wasn't full of bull, they'd look like fools for only a little while. Then, like he told Ibn Ubayy, they'd all be radioactive dust. He tried to settle back in his seat, tried to force himself to relax, to prepare for what might be ahead of them. He glared surreptitiously at the Arab leader who stared ahead of them with a blood thirsty glint in dark eyes that shone over a great eagle's beak of a nose like some crazy bedouin going into battle. He could not relax, but at least Ibn Ubayy not being prone to idle chatter, didn't need to be entertained or amused. All in all, the Green Hornet thought glumly, he'd rather be in bed.   
  


  
  


The Black Beauty sailed down the down ramp at top speed, nearly losing traction as it cut too wide and slipped on the loose dirt of the narrow shoulder. "I'd like it if we could make it in one piece," the Green Hornet commented wryly.   
  


"Sorry, boss," Kato said. The Green Hornet glanced at Kato and noticed that the young man was enjoying this as much Ibn Ubayy. _They're all nuts_, he thought.   
  


A police chopper flew low overhead, shaking the heavy car with the beat of its blades. Its brilliant searchlight turned the ground below it into a blue grey daylight as it skimmed above the ground heading toward the Red Knight building. As the Black Beauty crested a small hill a frozen hell appeared in the chopper's brilliant light . Amid mounds of snow and ice small knots of men locked in deadly combat appeared briefly as the light flashed over them only to disappear again into the darkness as the light swept on past them. Occasionally the sky above the building was lit by lightening-like flashes of light that sparked up from the ground only to die in fading spirals of smoke.   
  


The Green Hornet's hunch had been on target, so nearly was a rocket as it snaked out of the darkness toward the chopper. At the last moment the chopper dived out of the way and headed for higher, safer air. Another smaller, lighter chopper flew out of nowhere. Spotting the DSTV markings on the light blue and white body, the Green Hornet swore under his breath. If Ibn Ubayy had not been on board, he would have called the pilot and read him a blistering riot act. Dedication to getting the news is one thing, getting killed in the process was another.   
  


The DSTV chopper flew in low toward the Red Knight, then suddenly screamed skyward, a rocket close on its tail. Too close. The helicopter was enveloped in a nimbus of light and smoke. The Green Hornet found himself holding his breath, praying without words. The DSTV helicopter emerged from the explosion, not entirely in one piece, but still airborne, still under the pilot's control, if barely. It spun crazily out of sight. Beside the Green Hornet, Ibn Ubayy whispered words in Arabic. A bright flash of an explosion temporarily brightened the night sky.   
  


"_Inshallah," _Ibn Ubayy murmured sadly.If God wills_._   
  


__The Green Hornet shook his head in denial. No, not as God wills. This was not God's doing, but man's.__   
  


__Kato glanced back at the Green Hornet, knowing that in Ibn Ubayy's presence he could not say a word about who might have on board the helicopter. He could say nothing, except, "They might have made it out before it exploded."   
  


"We'll find out when we get there," the Green Hornet answered grimly.__   
  


Kato reluctantly slowed the Black Beauty as it raced along the winding lanes of the industrial park.   
  


"Why are you slowing down?" Ibn Ubayy protested, "We must hurry. We must go faster," he demanded.   
  


"Can't. I'm going as fast as I can. These roads are slippery. All the snow that melted during the day has turned into ice," Kato explained as the Black Beauty hit a slick patch, briefly slipping before regaining traction. "If we go any faster, we'll wipe out before we even get there."   
  


The Green Hornet nodded in agreement. Their police escort had lost ground. The gap between them and the Black Beauty had been steadily growing with few of the police cars or their drivers able to keep up with the powerful rolling arsenal. Now it was widening even further as the slick roads made it even more dangerous to travel at high speed. Still, the first police car gamely kept up with them. The Green Hornet shook his head. He recognized the car from their first trip to the Red Knight. The cop, then he quickly corrected himself to cops as the light from the police chopper still circling the battleground illuminated two silhouettes, must be as crazy as they are.   
  


"Kato," the Green Hornet said, "Stop when we reach the road just before the Red Knight. We'll pull off there. I want to send the scanner up to see if I can spot where Ibrahim or Hakenkrueze is. If we can take care of them, we'll be able to stop this battle."   
  


"We could lose it if one of those nuts shoot at it," Kato pointed out.   
  


"Maybe, but it can be replaced. I don't want to waste our time fighting everybody and his brother if we can take down the leaders first."   
  


Kato drove the Black Beauty around the corner of the road the Green Hornet indicated and came to a stop in a parking lot just off the road. The police car behind them pulled in beside them. The rest of the police cars rushed past where they had pulled off, unaware that the leaders were no longer in front.   
  


"Activate the Scanner generator," the Green Hornet said. A small electric motor set in the Black Beauty's trunk made a soft purring whine as a pair of doors opened up to allow the Scanner to rise up on its platform. "Send her up, Kato," he said. The small flying television camera lifted up with a gentle rotation, looking much like a miniature satellite. The Green Hornet nodded in satisfaction. He opened a pair of doors behind the driver's seat. "I'll take her from here," he said as he turned on the television monitor behind the doors and twisted a number of knobs.   
  


Ibn Ubayy murmured beside him, "Ah, you Americans, always you have such wondrous devices."   
  


The Green Hornet guided the scanner away in a low sweeping course toward the battleground around the Red Knight building. The Scanner was no more than a foot tall and less than six inches wide. It was small enough to be hardly visible in the darkness, but the Green Hornet kept it low, barely keeping it out of the tree branches. He didn't want to chance losing it, at least not until he found out what he needed.   
  


The Scanner flew on, passing over a line of police cars. The Green Hornet noticed through the Scanner's light sensitive camera that one officer was down, and was being attended by another two, but so far there appeared to be no other injuries. Apparently unsure of whose side they were supposed to be on they had decided to wait for reinforcements and instructions from higher up. _It was probably for the best,_ he thought. It looked like the contest was fairly even between Ibrahim's men and Hakenkrueze's. Hakenkrueze's men were better trained, and surely better armed, but Ibrahim's men were experienced fighters. Hakenkrueze's men were not. It was one thing to terrorize unarmed civilians, another to battle men to whom death was a religious honor.   
  


Ibrahim's men and Hakenkrueze's had formed a battlefield among the low rolling hills of a small landscaped park that threaded between the buildings of the industrial park and the freeway. Not bothering using the exit ramp, Ibrahim and his men had driven straight across the parkland the bordered the freeway and had attacked the Red Knight building on its western side, away from the large parking lots that bordered it. The Green Hornet carefully moved the scanner near Ibrahim's men who had arranged themselves between the trees and rocks near the Red Knight building. Backed by a motley row of pickups, timeworn sedans and the Humvee that still bore the marks of the Black Beauty's rockets, Ibrahim's men presented a mismatched appearance. While many sported desert camouflage uniforms, as large a number wore heavy civilian winter clothing.   
  


Hakenkrueze and his men had responded to the attack by forming a line with the Red Knight to their back. In contrast to Ibrahim's men, Hakenkrueze's formed a well-organized line. To a man they were well dressed in heavy winter camouflage uniforms and well armed with automatic weapons. Hakenkrueze stood proudly at the head of his men. His ascetic pale face was aglow with joy. Here was obviously something he had dreamed of doing all of his life. He paced among his men, his voice, filled with racial slurs and overblown oratory, urging his men to greater effort, to greater glory. Between the two groups a few men still moved painfully to their respective sides. There were others that lay unmoving, perhaps to never move again.   
  


"I didn't know you had so many men with you," the Green said to Ibn Ubayy, "I thought you were on a peace mission."   
  


"Some of them are, were, my men. Others belong to the Ayatollah and other delegates. There are many at the conference who would rather fight than talk peace. Too, there are those in this city who would willingly answer the call to fight the infidels," Ibn Ubayy answered.   
  


"Too many," the Green Hornet said under his breath.   
  


The Green Hornet took a chance to sweep the Scanner just to the south of the battle where the DSTV chopper went down. A fitful light guttered from the helicopter's remains but even without that the Green Hornet could see two men and a woman huddled beside a grouping of rocks that had been artfully arranged near a small ice-covered pond. One of the men rose to stare at the Scanner. The Green Hornet barely restrained his alarm. "It looks like Reid's son came out to catch the action," he said, keeping his voice carefully even. "There's a woman with them, too." He added.   
  


"Reid's daughter?" Kato asked, trying to sound as matter fact as the Green Hornet.   
  


"No," the Green Hornet replied, slowly, then a stray breeze pushed long dark hair away from the woman's face.   
  


"It is Fatima, young Reid's fiancee," Ibn Ubayy supplied, looking over at the small screen.   
  


"Why . . . ?" Kato asked.   
  


"Damned if I know," the Green Hornet answered. He sent the Scanner flying back toward the Red Knight. "At least they and the pilot look in one piece. I hope they're smart enough to stay the hell out of things."   
  


The Green Hornet signaled for the scanner to take a return flight closer to the Red Knight building. He had still not caught sight of Ibrahim and needed to know where he might be. Hakenkrueze looking upward caught sight of the Scanner on its return flight. Grinning wolfishly he pulled out an automatic pistol and began firing lazily at the flying television camera.   
  


"Damn," the Green Hornet cursed as he pressed the emergency recall button to speed the Scanner back to safety. Then he spotted a stray movement in the shadow of the Red Knight. He moved to cancel the recall. The screen suddenly went blank.   
  


"What happened?" Ibn Ubayy demanded.   
  


"Yeah, what happened?" Kato echoed.   
  


The Green Hornet shut off the television monitor with an angry snap. "Hakenkrueze shot it down," he answered disgustedly. "I think I might've spotted someone sneaking up to the Red Knight. Hakenkrueze took out the scanner before I could tell for sure," he added.   
  


"What are we going to do?" Kato asked.   
  


The Green Hornet glanced out his window. The police officers in the unit parked to their right had apparently tired of waiting for movement from the Black Beauty. One of the men, older with grizzled grey hair uneasily approached the black car with a night stick in his hand. The other man, much younger, Chinese by his looks, warily remained near the police car.   
  


"I might as well tell everyone at the same time," he said as he stepped out of the Black Beauty with Ibn Ubayy scrambling out behind him. He met the older police officer as he neared the Black Beauty's passenger side. Kato stepped out the driver's side and approached from around the car's long trunk. He silently nodded to the young officer who stood between the two cars. The young officer glanced at his partner, unsure of what to do.   
  


"The name's Robinson," the elder officer said to the Green Hornet, "My partner's name is Ching."   
  


The Green Hornet nodded toward Ibn Ubayy, "This is Colonel Ibn Ubayy." With a tilt of his head he indicated Kato, "And my man, Kato."   
  


"And you're the Green Hornet," Robinson said.   
  


The Green Hornet nodded.   
  


"So what's going on? I saw you send that gadget out, but I don't see it come back."   
  


"It was a remote television camera with light-sensitive lenses. I was using it to see what was going on. Hakenkrueze took it out," he added with a grimace.   
  


"Hakenkrueze? Isn't he the guy that's supposed to be the head of that APP group that's suspected of bombing the Daily Sentinel?"   
  


"I don't know about the Sentinel connection, but there's a rumor that Hakenkrueze may have a nuclear bomb that he's planning on using in the Middle East."   
  


"And that's why those other guys are out there," Robinson guessed, "To take it from him."   
  


"Yes and use it to bomb the city. In revenge for the Ayatollah's murder."   
  


Robinson gave a low whistle. "You're right about this being a life or death situation. Or worse. What did you see before Hakenkrueze blasted your gadget?" he asked.   
  


The Green Hornet told him about the two battle lines drawn before the Red Knight. "I might have seen Ibrahim and one or more of his men trying to sneak into the building. I couldn't get a better look before I lost contact with the Scanner," he said in conclusion.   
  


"So what are you planning on doing?" Robinson asked. "You've led us all into this mess. Now what?"   
  


The Green Hornet shrugged. "Have you gotten on word on what police headquarters is planning?" he asked.   
  


"They're planning on sending in the SWAT teams. They're the ones who're set up for wars, not us. The governor's being approached about sending in the National Guard. They're still not sure whose side we should be on, so there's talk we'll take everybody in and straighten it out afterwards."   
  


"Good idea. I'm not even going to pretend that I'm anywhere near equipped to deal with two armies . . . " the Green Hornet began.   
  


"Not even with that car?" Ching said.   
  


"Not even with the Black Beauty. One shot from one of those rockets and we'd be dead. Just like people in the DSTV copter almost were."   
  


"Almost were? Then they're okay?"   
  


"Yes," the Green Hornet said without elaboration.   
  


"So what are you planning on doing?" Robinson pressed.   
  


"I want to get into the Red Knight. That's where Ibrahim is probably heading. If there is a nuclear device there, I want to make sure that he doesn't get it, and I plan take it out of Hakenkrueze's hands as well. Everything is happening on the park side of the building to the north and west. I'm planning on approaching from the east parking lot where the loading dock is. I have a 'gadget' that can open most doors. If that doesn't work, we can always use the Black Beauty's rockets."   
  


"So that's what the three of you are planning on doing." Robinson turned to the Arab leader. "Aren't these your people? Can't you just tell them to put up their guns?" he asked.   
  


"It is too late. Now they only wish to fight. To them this is a holy war. They will not listen to reason. Not until Ibrahim is defeated or dead. Then they will listen to me. But not until Hakenkrueze's men stop firing as well."   
  


"And what about Hakenkrueze?" Robinson asked.   
  


"Right now he's busy playing General, but if he gets wind of what Ibrahim is trying to do, he'll move to stop him. I'll have to make sure that whatever happens we're the ones who wind up with the device."   
  


"And what about us?"   
  


"You can do whatever you want. You should probably join up with the other cops."   
  


"We could go with you."   
  


The Green Hornet noticed with amusement the younger officer start at the suggestion. Obviously, he didn't agree with that idea. Shaking his head, the Green Hornet said, "No, you'll only be in the way. I'd have to look out after you instead of concentrating on what I'm doing."   
  


"You might need some back up."   
  


The Green Hornet allowed himself a smile. "Do you honestly think that you could handle something that I couldn't?" he asked.   
  


Robinson answered the Green Hornet's smile. "Probably not, but we're sticking with you," he said with a shrug.   
  


"As you wish, just stay out of our way," the Green Hornet said turning to climb back into the Black Beauty. "By the way," he added out of his open window, "No sirens. We want to approach unnoticed."   
  


  
  


The scanner had shown that the police had cordoned off the road leading to the Red Knight building making the approach impossible from that direction. Instead the Green Hornet instructed Kato to take a roundabout route to the building by traveling along a winding road that led east instead of west toward the Red Knight. For a moment the police copter's lights slid over them, but it maintained a wary distance far above the ground in order to stay out of range of any further rocket fire.   
  


Eventually they approached the Red Knight from the east and south. The road directly south of the Red Knight was blocked by police cars, but the south entrance to the parking lot of a small complex of small industry buildings was clear. The Black Beauty drove along a narrow road between two buildings until it reached a low median that separated the road from the south parking lot of the Red Knight.   
  


"Your car is too low," Ibn Ubayy commented, "I don't think you can cross it."   
  


"The Black Beauty's undercarriage is armored, nothing can be hurt. Except," he said as Kato forced the car over the median and back down the other side with a loud thump of its tail, "The ride's damn rough."   
  


. The Green Hornet glanced back at the police car behind him. With amusement he watched it slow down at the median and then hesitate. Finally they appeared to decide not to risk destroying the oil pan and turned around. 

The Black Beauty came to a stop near the loading dock at the rear of the building. Although the battle raged on the other side of the building, Hakenkrueze had posted some men on the loading dock side. The bullets from their guns pinged and banged against the Black Beauty without damage.   
  


"Put them to sleep, Kato," the Green Hornet ordered.   
  


A door set near the bottom edge of the Black Beauty's grill opened, revealing a nozzle. The green hornet gas spewed out until the attackers fell to the ground.   
  


"Are they dead?" Ibn Ubayy asked.   
  


"No, only asleep. I avoid killing as much as possible," the Green Hornet answered.   
  


"Admirable," Ibn Ubayy said. "To have such weapons and desire not to kill."   
  


Kato flipped open the armrest to his right between the two front seats to reveal a number of buttons and switches. "Do you want to try the rockets first?" he asked.   
  


"No, not yet. We might need them later. I'll use the Sting first," the Green Hornet answered as he climbed out of the car. Ibn Ubayy followed him out, as did Kato.   
  


The Green Hornet checked the door near the loading dock and was not surprised that it was locked. He waved Kato and Ibn Ubayy out of his way as he pulled the Hornet sting to its full length. "Watch your ears," he warned Ibn Ubayy.   
  


The Hornet sting began a low whine that turned into an earsplitting hum as it began to pound at the heavy door with ultra sonic waves. It kicked and bucked in the Green Hornet's hands. He could feel the vibration in his hands and all the way through his arms and shoulders. Simple locks and doors only required a low setting and a short time, but heavier doors tested the limits of the powerful weapon and its user. 

Finally the hum crescendoed into a scream that rose above human hearing, slamming open the door with a flash of flame and smoke. Kato was the first to step through, waving the remaining smoke away from the door. With a broad grin of delight Ibn Ubayy watched the Green Hornet slide the Hornet sting back into a short rod. "You must tell me how you built such a wondrous device," he said.   
  


"No way," the Green Hornet commented grimly. "Nobody is going to know how it's built. We have enough deadly weapons without adding another like the sting."   
  


The inside of the loading dock was dimly lit. A pair of humvees in winter camouflage were parked near the broad doors of the ground level entrance. Several opened boxes filled with an assortment of automatic weapons were scattered near them. Through a curtain of broad plastic strips could be seen the shipping department in which several boxes stood ready to shipped throughout the country. From the opposite side of the shipping department could be heard the chatter of machine guns just on the other side of the wall. A broad ramp near that wall led down into the depths of the Red Knight.   
  


"Colonel, I think Ibrahim and his men will be heading this way," the Green Hornet said, "Do you want to meet them here, or do you want to go with us?"   
  


"Where will you be going, my friend?" Ibn Ubayy asked.   
  


"We're after the bomb. I don't think it's in this room. It'll probably be in wherever their armory is, or wherever Hakenkrueze keeps his favorite 'toys'."   
  


"I will stay here," Ibn Ubayy said, "I must do what I can to stop Ibrahim." He offered his hand to the Green Hornet and Kato. "Go with God, my friends."   
  


"And with you," the Green Hornet answered.   
  


Kato followed the Green Hornet down the ramp that was lit in black out condition with dim red bulbs. "How are we going to find it? This a damn big place to find an A-bomb," he commented. "You know those things are a lot smaller than they used to be."   
  


"I know that," the Green Hornet answered. "The first time I ran into one, it was about the size of a large coffin. Now they can be put in a suitcase."   
  


"So how are we going to find it?" Kato asked.   
  


"Simple. We're going to ask someone."   
  


Kato grinned, adjusting his gloves, "Sounds like a good plan to me. Got anybody in mind?"   
  


"Yeah," the Green Hornet answered.   
  


The ramp came to a door marked A, and then continued downward. "This is our stop," the Green Hornet said pressing on the door. Surprisingly the door opened easily, apparently someone had left it unlocked. Kato led the way, a pair of Hornet darts in his hand. The Green Hornet followed, Hornet gun at the ready.   
  


Every office that opened onto the thickly carpeted floor was dark but one.   
  


"I've been expecting you," Colonel Greenwood said as the Green Hornet and Kato entered, "Or at least someone like you."   
  


The Green Hornet nodded toward the gun that laid on the top of Greenwood's desk. Greenwood's hands were flat on the desktop on either side of the gun. "Are you planning on using that?" he asked.   
  


"Yes," Greenwood answered with a sigh, "But I am finding that I don't have the courage. I fear I enjoying living too much. And yet without honor . . . "   
  


"That's the coward's way out," the Green Hornet said.   
  


Greenwood shook his head sadly. "Hell of a thing to grow old and outlive your usefulness." He looked up at the Green Hornet. They were very close in age. "Did you serve in 'Nam?"   
  


The Green Hornet shook his head, "No."   
  


"So you were one of the lucky ones. Or did you get a deferment?" Greenwood asked.   
  


The Green Hornet shrugged without comment. "Does Hakenkrueze have an A-bomb?"   
  


"Is that what you're after?" Greenwood said.   
  


"Yes, so are the Arabs. That's why they're here," the Green Hornet answered. "I want to make sure that they don't get it. And I want it out of Hakenkrueze's hands."   
  


Greenwood nodded absently. "Yes, of course. I chose wrongly, didn't I? I thought Hakenkrueze had a lot of promise. I thought all he needed was little guidance. I thought I could groom him into a leader. This country needs a strong leader, you know. There are so many things that are so wrong with our country today, everything is so out of control. We need someone strong, you know, someone to bring the golden days back."   
  


"There were never golden days," the Green Hornet said, "Only the faulty memories of old men. We always remember the good, not the bad. Where is the bomb?"   
  


Greenwood rose, picking up the gun. Kato stiffened beside the Green Hornet. "Hakenkrueze has it in a steel case. It's already packed in a Humvee in the loading dock. He's planning on sending it out on an iron ore ship heading for the Mideast. One of the major harbors on the Persian Gulf is his target," he said. He turned the gun on the Green Hornet. He nodded toward the green gun in the Green Hornet's hand. "Will you at least give me the chance of dying in battle?" he asked.   
  


"I can't," the Green Hornet said, "This gun doesn't kill. It can only stop you from doing something stupid," he added as he pressed the gas gun's trigger.   
  


Kato eased Greenwood to the floor. "Back to the loading dock?" he asked.   
  


  
  


Heading for the safety of the small industry offices, John, Fatima and the pilot watched the Black Beauty spray its attackers. "Jack, you and Fatima head for those buildings where it's safe. I'm going where that car is going." he said.   
  


"No way, John," the pilot answered, "there's no reason for you to get yourself killed just for some damn story."   
  


"I'm going," John insisted.   
  


"The Old Man, er, Mr. Reid would kill me if I let you go," Jack insisted.   
  


"Look, with a busted leg, you're not much up to stopping me. Besides it's going to be the story of the year. It'd be embarrassing for the Sentinel not to get the story after losing a copter over it."   
  


"It'd be worse than embarrassing if the heir to the Sentinel got himself killed over a damned story."   
  


"I'm going, Jack. End of discussion," John said turning toward the Red Knight. "Fatima, you go with him." he said to Fatima.   
  


"No, I'm going with you," she said.   
  


"Now, Fatima . . . " John began.   
  


"You may need an interpreter. Many of these people don't speak English. You will need me along to stop anyone from killing you out of hand. Besides what better way to get the story than from the very people involved. And you can't do it if you don't understand what they're saying."   
  


"But . . . " he tried again, but she was already heading for the Red Knight.   
  


John shrugged helplessly. Jack returned his shrug and shook his head. "You're made for each other." he said.   
  


  
  


Ibn Ubayy had stationed himself just out of sight of the ruined door. He thoughtfully caressed the AK-47 in his hands. The gun was fully loaded, he had made sure of that. He wished he had one of the Green Hornet's wonderful non-lethal weapons. He wished that he had the masked man's dedication to preserving life. He didn't. He was a warrior. Always had been. From the time he could carry a rifle, he had been a warrior. Even now, he was a warrior, prepared to take a life for his cause. Always for his people, always for their freedom. Now he would have to make the greatest sacrifice. For peace he would have to kill his own son.   
  


With his men close behind him, Ibrahim cautiously entered through the loading dock door. Ibn Ubayy greeted him from out of the shadows. "Turn around, Ibrahim. Go back. You must stop fighting now," he ordered.   
  


"Why should we stop? We are so close to victory. It is too late. We will seize the infidel's weapon and use it to send them all back to their master _shaitan_." Ibrahim argued.   
  


"Your actions will only bring grief to our people. They cannot stand against the anger of the entire world. Your foolish actions will doom our people to more misery and death. You will stop now. I command this as your leader and as your father."   
  


Ibrahim snorted derisively. "Now you remember you are my father, but where were you when our family starved in the camps. Where were you when my mother, your wife, begged in the streets in front of the house that was once ours, but now belonged to Israeli 'settlers'?"   
  


"I was fighting for our family. I was fighting for our people."   
  


"And now I continue the fight. Now I bring the battle to _shaitan's_ heart. We will purify the world with sword and fire until all come under the _shariah_," Ibrahim answered hotly.   
  


"Do not do this," Ibn Ubayy warned pointing the AK-47 at his son's heart, "the battle must end here."   
  


"If it is God's will that we die here," Ibrahim answered, "then so be it. You will have to kill us or we will kill you. Get out of our way old man or join us. Or die."   
  


"Is it God's will that son should kill father? Or that father should kill son?" a woman's voice interrupted.   
  


Ibn Ubayy and Ibrahim spun to face the woman. "Where in the Koran is it written that blood should destroy blood in Allah's name?" she asked. Where in the sacred book is it written that it is righteous to kill one's father?"   
  


"Go away woman," Ibrahim snarled, "Go back to your lover. You have disgraced yourself enough by laying with him. Do not disgrace yourself further by involving yourself in the affairs of men."   
  


"Yes, the affairs of men," she said bitterly, "You decide the fate of your people and in your blindness, kill mother's sons and make widows and orphans. All in your pride of manhood. You have become like a dog that bites the fleas that plague it. They bite it, and bother it to distraction. So it chews at its own flesh, to rid itself of them. Yet they still bite and still the dog chews until it is bleeding of its own flesh. Still the fleas continue and so does the dog until it bleeds so much that it sickens and dies. And what of the fleas now that the dog is dead?" She shrugged carelessly, "They simply seek another dog to plague." She drew out of the heavy fur coat, a small red gun that glistened in the light, "I will not allow you and your kind to continue. Our people have bled enough."   
  


"Foolish woman, go away, or you will be punished," Ibrahim threatened, but his men had strangely moved away from him.   
  


"Do you not know me?" she asked, "Your father does, as does your men."   
  


"I do not know what you are talking about. You are mad."   
  


"I bear now the name of the Prophet's daughter, Fatima, but those in the camps and in the high places know me by another. I am the Sirocco, the wind of god. The wind that was sent by Allah to destroy the armies of the Prophet's enemies. High ones in their palaces have died at my hand and the low ones hide in the shadows of the slums for fear of my touch. You will cease what you are doing, you will submit to your father's will as a dutiful son should or you will be swept away by Allah's wind."   
  


"By that little toy?" Ibrahim said derisively, turning to fire on the woman as he spoke.   
  


The small gun spat in her hand once, its report more like a sad sigh. The gun Ibrahim was holding was slammed violently out of his hands. It lay on the ground as smoking wreckage. "Submit to your father," she demanded, "Or you will go to the hell for those children who disobey their parents."   
  


Unsure of what to do Ibrahim's men looked questioningly between their leader and Ibn Ubayy. They had heard before of the assassin called Sirocco but could not before it was the ski-suited woman before them. Ibn Ubayy nodded slightly, acknowledging who she was.   
  


"Feared One," one of Ibrahim's men stuttered out, "But what of the infidel. Should we lie before them. Allow them to take what is rightfully ours?"   
  


"Colonel Ibn Ubayy. You know the truth of this," Fatima answered.   
  


"Yes," Ibn Ubayy answered, "She speaks the truth. Our violence has only earned us hatred of world and destroyed all we love. We must seek now world's cooperation through peace."   
  


Barking laughter interrupted from the loading dock door, "You're a bunch of backward superstitious fools," Hakenkrueze roared as he sprayed the Arabs with machine gun fire. The three men with him backed him with a withering fire of bullets, catching Ibrahim's men and spinning them to the ground.   
  


Ibn Ubayy dived to cover Ibrahim, pulling him to the shelter of a pillar. Rolling for another pillar Fatima, fired back at Hakenkrueze and his men. Ibn Ubayy and Ibrahim joined in the return fire. Hakenkrueze launched himself for one of the waiting Humvees. A bullet from Fatima's small gun caught one of his men piercing his bullet proof vest and sending him flying backwards out the door as Hakenkrueze's other men piled into the Humvee.   
  


Unnoticed by the others, John had watched the entire exchange between Fatima and Ibrahim from the doorway. Now he jumped for Hakenkrueze trying to pull him from the vehicle. Hakenkrueze kicked him away as he struggled to get the key into the ignition. The heavy vehicle growled to life and Hakenkrueze slammed his foot on the gas pedal, as the broad door of the loading dock began clanking open. The Humvee slammed into and through the lower edge of the door before it could fully open. At the last moment John launched himself into the short open bed of the Humvee.   
  


The Green Hornet and Kato ran into the loading dock area just as the Humvee roared out. "Hakenkrueze is in it!" Ibn Ubayy yelled to the Green Hornet. "He must be stopped!"   
  


"I know, he has the bomb," the Hornet answered without pausing as he and Kato raced for the Black Beauty.   
  


"Wait . . . " Ibn Ubayy began, but too late to be heard. Too late to tell him that John Reid was riding in the escaping vehicle.   
  


The Green Hornet and Kato scrambled for the Black Beauty. The powerful black car roared after the escaping Humvee, narrowly missing the police car headed their way. A pair of police cars had opened a blockade across the back parking lot of the Red Knight to allow the other police car through. They moved to close the gap ahead of the Humvee, but it smashed between them sending them spinning in opposite directions. The third police car charged after the Black Beauty and the Humvee.   
  


John grabbed for back gate of the Humvee, almost losing his balance as the vehicle swerved around a tight corner. He rose to his knees to peer over the gate. He was nearly blinded by the high beams of the black car pursuing the Humvee. Just barely he could a pair of doors open under the bright headlights. There was a deep throated whoosh from the car as a slender rocket headed straight for him. The Humvee violently swerved again and the rocket flashed harmlessly by trailed by a tail of smoke and flame. Again another rocket was fired by the black car and again the Humvee swerved barely in time to avoid the rocket. Another rocket roared out but this time the Humvee slipped on a patch of ice, sending it directly into the path of the rocket. The rocket blasted into the lower left side of the Humvee's tail, less than a foot from where John fought to keep his place in the wildly gyrating vehicle. The Humvee rocked and bucked under the force of the rocket's strike.   
  


Almost throwing John out of the back, the Humvee turned suddenly off the road onto a broad expanse of snow heading for the freeway far off in the distance. The ride was now even rougher because the rocket had severely damaged part of the Humvee's left-hand running gear, but its high wide tires worked to its advantage in the deep snow. The black car plowed into the light powder after the Humvee, half burying itself into the snow. The forward momentum of it's powerful engine sent the black car smashing through the snow making it look like some kind of strange prehistoric creature charging through the snow drifts.   
  


One of Hakenkrueze's men scrambled precariously out of the Humvee's back seat for the Humvee's short bed. He began firing at the black car, but his automatic rifle's bullets zinged harmlessly off the car's armored body. John crawled across the bouncing bed for the man. Hakenkrueze's man cursed as he swung his rifle at John. Losing his balance as the Humvee plunged through the snow, John was struck across the jaw with the butt of the neo-Nazi's rifle.   
  


The Humvee began to slow as black smoke began billowing out from its rear. The black car was still gamely plowing through the snow after it and slowly gaining. Hakenkrueze's man fumbled through the wooden boxes filling part of the bed, roughly cuffing John when he tried to stop him. Finding a hand grenade, the man pitched it at the black car. Snow cascaded upward under the force of the explosion, temporarily hiding the black car.   
  


The snow settled revealing the black car, stopped, black smoke billowing out. The crippled Humvee stopped with a huffing wheeze. Hakenkrueze climbed out of the Humvee, his other man following close behind. The third man leaped out of the bed and joined the other two. Ignored by Hakenkrueze and his men, John groggily pulled himself to his feet. Supporting himself on the edge of the Humvee's back gate John saw his father, dressed in the dark green coat and matching mask charge forward out of the black smoke covering the black car, his fist going low and deep into Hakenkrueze's belly.   
  


Then he heard a high yowl, seemingly torn from the throat a cougar. Open mouthed he saw Lee, he was sure it was Lee except he was clad in a black chauffeur's uniform and black mask. Lee leaped through the air as if he had wings in a high kick that caught one of Hakenkrueze's men in the head. Hakenkrueze's man rolled the instant he struck the snow covered ground and quickly rose to his feet. As he rose, a long bladed serrated knife flashed in his left hand. The knife swept across barely missing Lee's mid-section. Lee quickly jumped back out of the knife's path. Hakenkrueze's man, a tall square-jawed blonde, motioned with right hand, grimly daring Lee to come at him.   
  


Lee stood, legs together, and bowed, open hand against closed fist, toward his astonished opponent with a large grin beneath his black mask. Hakenkrueze's man gaped in surprise, but only for a moment. With a bone chilling yowl, Lee high kicked the knife out of the man's hand, sending it flying several feet into the air. Lee followed through with a quick chop toward the man's throat, but his blow was blocked at the last moment and returned with a rapid knife-edged slash to his belly. Lee blocked and struck out again for the man's own middle only to be blocked again.   
  


John couldn't believe his eyes, both men's hands flew in an eye-blinding blur. Lee's high pitched yowls were echoed by his opponent's deep throated karate cries. Then in the corner of his eye, John noticed that the third man, the one who had ridden in the rear of the Humvee had crept toward the two fighting men. Taking careful aim the man drew up an AK-47. John jumped from the Humvee onto his back. Caught by surprise, John's man went down easily into the deep snow. John went in after him, fists flailing for the man's face and body. The man shook himself free of John and the snow.   
  


He grinned at John and the younger Reid suddenly realized how much bigger the man was than himself. The man grabbed for John with a big bear hug, but, despite the heavy snow that dragged at his feet John quickly moved out of the man's way. John threw a quick rabbit punch for the man's kidneys, but his blow was softened by thick winter padding. The big man turned sweeping a long arm out catching John across the side of his head. John tumbled into the snow. At the last moment he rolled out of the way as his opponent dived for him. John jumped on top of the man and began again to strike him around the head and shoulders, this time with his hands clasped together into a double fist. The big man struggled for a few moments and then laid still.   
  


Breathing heavily John knelt over his opponent for a few moments trying to catch his breath. Even though it was freezing cold outside and snow had been shoved through the neck and sleeves of his heavy down jacket, he was sweating heavily. He looked around trying to find Lee and his father. He spotted Lee too looking around puzzled.   
  


"Where's my fa . . . ?" he began, then noticing Lee's sudden look of anger, realized the serious mistake he had almost made. "Where's the Green Hornet?" he asked.   
  


"I don't know. But he and Hakenkrueze left a big enough trail to follow," he said, pointing out a broad swath of trampled snow. Kato high stepped through the snow toward John. "How're you doing?" he asked. He looked down at John's defeated foe. "Damn, that's a big one," he commented.   
  


John nodded. "Yeah. You two do this a lot?" he asked as he shuffled through the snow heading toward the same trail of beaten snow that Kato was heading for.   
  


"Not usually in two feet in snow." Kato answered as he entered the path that the Green Hornet and Hakenkrueze had left behind them.   
  


While Kato and John had been busy with their own battles, Hakenkrueze and the Green Hornet were waging their own miniature war. Hakenkrueze had most of the advantages, especially youth. This time Hakenkrueze was determined not to overestimate the older man, who was still a powerful man despite his age, and because of his age, was much more experienced in an actual fight compared to Hakenkrueze's own experience in sparring matches limited to men who would rather not defeat their leader.   
  


The Green Hornet's rapid attack had surprised him. The masked man, aware of his own limited stamina, was going for a rapid defeat of the neo-Nazi leader. He repeatedly threw bone-jarring blows into Hakenkrueze's stomach and chest. Hakenkrueze stumbled and faltered under the Green Hornet's attack. When the neo-Nazi leader fell to one knee, the Green Hornet momentarily paused, the fair fighter warring against the need for a quick victory.   
  


Hakenkrueze swept up a wave of the light snow into the Green Hornet's face, at the same time launching himself up at the masked man. He drove his fist into the man's belly and another against his jaw. The Green Hornet faltered and fell onto his side. Hakenkrueze kicked at the Green Hornet missing the man's stomach but catching him in the lower side as he tried to roll out of the way. Hakenkrueze was gladdened by the Green Hornet's grunt of pain, but was not going to allow himself to back off just yet. This time it would be the Green Hornet who would sue for mercy. Something that Hakenkrueze would never grant.   
  


Hakenkrueze flew himself down at the older man, only to find himself repelled by a strong kick against his chest. He pulled himself to his feet before the Green Hornet could rise and again kicked out at the man, catching him in the jaw. Again the Green Hornet tried to roll out of the way of Hakenkrueze's kick, but Hakenkrueze caught him in the upper thigh of his left leg. Hakenkrueze felt the jarring impact of foot striking solid bone, but relished the scream of pain that ripped out of the Green Hornet. He fervently hoped he had broken the man's leg.   
  


Hakenkrueze threw himself onto the Green Hornet, his hands reaching for the man's throat. With one hand the Green Hornet struggled to tear Hakenkrueze's hands from his throat while with the other he tried to force his attacker's jaw up and back. The two men rolled across the cold snow-covered ground locked in a death battle. Suddenly a weak lip of snow hanging over the shallow stream leading away from the man-made pond gave way under their combined weight. Both men fell into the stream, landing hard onto the rocks below.   
  


Quickly recovering the younger Hakenkrueze came to his feet. The heavy winter uniform that had kept him warm and dry while rolling around in the snow had protected him from the force of the fall. The Green Hornet was not so lucky. His winter weight overcoat gave no protection against the water's bone-chilling cold, nor did it save him from the bruising force of landing on top of the rocks at the bottom of the shallow stream. Rolling to his side, the Green Hornet struggled for each painful breath.   
  


The neo-Nazi leader unsnapped the sheath at his side and pulled out a long dagger. The dagger's hilt was made from the ivory he had taken from a bull elephant he had killed on a Kenyan game preserve. It was spiral in shape with thin braided gold running in the grooves of the spiral. The hand guard was gold as was the rounded pommel. In the pommel was set in black onyx the APP's double headed eagle. It was a thing of beauty, never blooded. Hakenkrueze smiled, the first blood a knife tasted should be worthy of its craftsmanship.   
  


Not wanting to stain his grey and white gloves he removed them and folded them into his belt. He knelt by the Green Hornet who had remained where he had fallen. The man's chest rose and fell rapidly as he gasped for air, but he did not move when Hakenkrueze threaded his fingers into his grey hair and bent his head back, exposing his throat.   
  


"Where is your brave talk now, Old Man?" Hakenkrueze crowed as he began to draw the sharp blade slowly across the Green Hornet's throat, blood reddening the glistening metal.   
  


"Here," the Green Hornet shouted, slamming a fist-sized rock against Hakenkrueze's head.   
  


Hakenkrueze screamed in anger and pain, "Son of a Bitch!"   
  


The Green Hornet threw the younger man off, trying to slam the dagger out of his attacker's hand. Hakenkrueze's other hand went for the masked man's throat, pressing against the open cut, trying crush his windpipe. The Green Hornet pulled back just far enough for Hakenkrueze to get enough leverage. He kneed the Green Hornet in the stomach, sending the man writhing back into the water. The dagger still in Hakenkrueze's hand began a downward slash toward the Green Hornet's unprotected back.   
  


"Freeze Hakenkrueze!" a voice lashed out.   
  


Hakenkrueze glowered up to see two policemen drawing down on him. Behind them a police car waited on a bridge across the stream. Its light bar was flashing red, white and blue against the first pale light of dawn.   
  


"Step back officers!" Hakenkrueze shouted back. "Turn around, say that you came too late, and I'll rid this city of a plague that this city has endured far too long."   
  


Robinson stepped forward, still holding his gun steadily on the neo-Nazi, "No way. I don't care for scum like you. If I had to choose between you and the Hornet, I'd choose him. So step away and put your hands into the air."   
  


Hakenkrueze growled. He was so close to his revenge. If only they had arrived a moment later. He glared at the two officers, the older one he might have had a chance with, but the younger, the Chinese one, it would be useless. There was no way he could chance the final stroke, they were too close, he would be dead before the dagger struck home.   
  


Raising his hands high above he said, "You're making a bad mistake officers. He's the one you should be taking in."   
  


"We're taking you both in," Robinson replied. He nodded toward the younger officer who began moving toward the two men in the stream. "Get out of the water, Hakenkrueze," he ordered.   
  


The younger officer, Ching, moved into the water as Hakenkrueze stepped onto the low walkway along the stream. He watched with unconcealed satisfaction as Ching helped the Green Hornet up. Unable to support his weight on his left leg the masked man leaned heavily on the smaller police officer. Hakenkrueze hoped fervently that he had indeed broken the man's leg.   
  


John and Kato arrived just as Ching was helping the Green Hornet out of the water. Robinson had already snapped handcuffs onto Hakenkrueze's wrists. Robinson drew down on them. "Hold it right there you two. Put your hands up," he demanded.   
  


John glanced back at Kato who shrugged and raised his hands into the air. "Look, officer, I'm John Reid, a reporter for the Daily Sentinel. I'm here covering the story," John said as he followed Kato's example.   
  


"Yeah, maybe so, but you do just as I say, and we'll get along just fine," Robinson warned.   
  


Ching had helped the Green Hornet to a bench next to the stream and was reading him his rights as John and Kato joined them. John was shocked by what he saw. The Green Hornet's head was bowed in exhaustion as Ching mirandized him. Drips from his wet hair fell along his mask and dripped down onto hands that lay still in his lap, battered and scraped hands in torn gloves. His lip was badly split and the blood from a cut on his neck had stained the collar of his shirt. The overcoat was badly ripped with one arm nearly completely torn from its seam. Tie and scarf nowhere to be seen, had been lost somewhere in the snow.   
  


At least he had the satisfaction that the elder Reid had given as well as he had received. Hakenkrueze wouldn't be winning any beauty contests in the near future. He too was soaking wet, with glistening beads of water in his severely cut short hair. A trail of blood seeped down from an ugly gash in his scalp, joining the blood that dripped from his smashed nose. One eye was almost shut closed and his jaw and mouth were swollen and purpled. Still, the one good eye gleamed in satisfaction as he watched the police officer talk to the Green Hornet. Doubtless Hakenkrueze would be jailed, but so would be the Green Hornet. The Green Hornet who had so much to lose.   
  


John wanted to say something through the heaviness in his gut. Yet he couldn't. He was John Reid, reporter, scion of the Reid family, future heir to the Daily Sentinel. Had he returned just to see his father jailed? Young Reid remained silent, but noticed a jaw muscle tensing under the bruising. He had seen that often enough to know that despite the closed eyes, the wheels were already running through his father's mind, hatching and rejecting plans and ideas, one after the other.   
  


The growl of a large engine interrupted John's thoughts. A winter camouflaged Humvee roared down the shallow streambed straight for them. A man stood in the vehicle's bed waving a metal case.   
  


"Commander, we have it!" the man shouted as it headed at the small knot of men at the stream's side.   
  


Hakenkrueze leapt for the Humvee as John, Kato and the police officers jumped out of the way. The Humvee charged past them and bounced up onto the road. It slammed into the waiting police car, sending it crashing down an embankment.   
  


"Kato!" the Green Hornet shouted from the bench where he still sat, unfazed by the sudden attack, "Get the Black Beauty!"   
  


John came up to him as Kato ran off for the car, "How can he? It's been destroyed."   
  


"It takes a lot more than a near miss with a damn hand grenade to damage the Black Beauty," he replied with a grim smile.   
  


John gaped. One moment the Green Hornet was the very picture of abject defeat, the other and he was ready again for battle.   
  


"You're not going anywhere," Robinson gritted, "You're still under arrest."   
  


"Officer Robinson," the Green Hornet said to Robinson, "Your unit's destroyed, so is your radio. How are you planning to get Hakenkrueze?"   
  


"He's right," Ching added. "The Hornet's the only one who can catch Hakenkrueze now."   
  


Robinson frowned in concentration. "You think that case has the bomb in it?" he asked the Green Hornet.   
  


The Green Hornet nodded. "Positive."   
  


Somewhere along the way Kato had found a shallow crossing spot for the Black Beauty and came alongside the waiting men. The Green Hornet attempted to get to his feet, but his leg was still giving him too much trouble. Kato stepped out of the car.   
  


"I'll give you a hand," John volunteered as he came to the Green Hornet's side. He could see stubborn pride warring in the older man's eyes with the need to get moving quickly. "I'm going with them," John said to the police officers.   
  


"Now wait a minute," Robinson said, "Nobody said anything about you going anywhere."   
  


"Am I under arrest?" John asked reasonably.   
  


"No . . . but I don't think you should go with them. I bet you're Britt Reid's son. I don't want to have to tell one of the city's most powerful men in the city that I let his son get himself killed," Robinson countered.   
  


John risked a quick glance at the Green Hornet, his father. He knew that the elder Reid was thinking the same thing as the police officer. There was a barely perceptible nod of permission.   
  


"My father would understand. I'm a reporter first. This could be the story of the year, if not the century. I can't go home without the story, not after we already lost a helicopter over it."   
  


The police officer hesitated a moment longer.   
  


"We can't waste any more time. We have to leave now," John pressed.   
  


"Okay, go," Robinson finally relented as he unsnapped the cuffs off the Green Hornet's wrists.   
  


John helped the Green Hornet to the waiting car and climbed in the opposite side. A strange transformation came over the Green Hornet. Where there was a man worn by exhaustion and defeat, was now a man fully in charge. "Kato," he said, "Get on the freeway and head east toward the city."   
  


"You have an idea where they might be heading?" Kato asked.   
  


"There's a private airport just off Route 605. It's big enough to handle big aircraft."   
  


"That would figure. Air's the fastest way to get out of town," Kato commented.   
  


"Right," the Green Hornet agreed.   
  


The road sped under the Black Beauty's tires. The freeway was well-maintained, kept free of any ice or snow. There would be no problems about keeping a firm grip on the road. However, another problem existed. As the sun rose on its sleepy way into the eastern sky, city bound travelers began to fill the road.   
  


"There's too much traffic, Boss," Kato said. "Hakenkrueze and his boys have too big a lead on us. We'll never catch them."   
  


The Green Hornet thought a moment, then noticed a passing sign, "Take the Harmon road exit. Route 202 will run into 605. It might even save us a few miles."   
  


"But 202's a two-lane road," John pointed out. "And they don't always keep it bladed," he added.   
  


"You have a better idea?" the Green Hornet asked sharply, as if he was talking a stranger instead of his own son.   
  


"No," John answered quietly, taken back by his father's harshness. He suddenly realized that the man sitting beside him was not Britt Reid, but the Green Hornet.   
  


Route 202 was not as well maintained as the freeway but a lot of people lived in the small bedroom communities feeding off the road, so it had been recently cleared of the most recent snowfall and was still well-sanded. The Black Beauty's great speed was making a difference. The Green Hornet glared at the double doors where the tv monitor sat. _If Hakenkrueze had not taken out the scanner . . . _, he thought. _Too late now. We'll have to make do without it._   
  


"There it is," Kato finally said as he spotted the Humvee through a clearing in the trees just before route 202 met 605.   
  


Rockets firing, the Black Beauty met the Humvee just as it passed the intersection. Two of the rockets struck the side of the large vehicle on the side with enough force to send it careening sideways half off the road. The Black Beauty pulled behind it, sending another pair of rockets after it. Only one hit its mark, but it was enough to crumple the rear fender.   
  


"Stay with them," the Green Hornet gritted as he pressed the buttons to send another volley into the escaping vehicle.   
  


"Shit!" he said when no rockets fired out. 

"What's wrong?" Kato asked.   
  


"We're out of rockets," the Green Hornet growled.   
  


In the breath of the respite from the Black Beauty's assault, Hakenkrueze's had found the time to take up their own attack. Rounds from AK-47's rattled against the Black Beauty's armored body in a deadly hail. A rocket hissed out from a hand-held rocket launcher heading straight for the Black Beauty. Kato wildly swung the Black Beauty out of the way. The rocket passed by the Black Beauty close enough for John to clearly see the lettering on its side. Another rocket zoomed out at them, a near miss again, this time coming in high, but low enough to singe a trail in the Black Beauty's roof.   
  


"Damn," Kato cursed, "It's going to take me forever to replace that vinyl."   
  


"Pull off and stop," the Green Hornet ordered.   
  


"But what about them?" Kato asked as the Humvee pulled away from them.   
  


The Green Hornet pulled himself out of the Black Beauty as it ground to a halt. "Pop the trunk open," he said.   
  


The wide trunk popped open with a sharp snap, as Kato and John joined him beside the car.   
  


"In that case is the Hornet mortar," he said, leaning against the open trunk. "It should still work and have a few mortars left. Attach it to the scanner's base," he directed. He pointed to a set of wires with connectors attached to them. "Those wires go there," he instructed as Kato and John set about connecting the bulky device. "Lock the scanner doors open, so the mortar will fit through the opening."   
  


Soon the Black Beauty was back on the road. The Green Hornet flipped a set of switches. "The mortar's live," he said when a telltale showed green. "After them, Kato," he ordered. "If you have any more horses under the hood, trot them out."   
  


"Think it'll work?" Kato asked as the Black Beauty began catching up with the Humvee.   
  


"It better," the Green Hornet commented. "The damn thing's a lot of trouble to use, but it's our best bet at the moment." He pressed a button and with a deep throated whoosh a mortar blasted from the Black Beauty's trunk.   
  


"A bit wide," Kato said, "Try again. A little lower this time."   
  


Hakenkrueze's men stood up and pulled the rocket launcher up again. The Green Hornet adjusted mortar's settings and fired. The Humvee swerved, barely avoiding the mortar. The standing man fell from the Humvee's bed right into the Black Beauty's path. Kato cranked the steering wheel, sending the big car into a dangerous swerve. It rocked precariously, for a breathless moment on the outer wheels, threatening to turn completely over. It landed back on all four wheels with a jarring thump that could be felt all the way up the spines of its passengers. Behind them the fallen man rose shakily to his feet.   
  


Kato shot a glance at the man as they passed him. "Blood would've been a bitch to clean off," he commented.   
  
  
  


Just ahead of them the Humvee crossed a narrow bridge over an ice-choked river. Something flew out of the Humvee and the bridge erupted in a massive explosion. The Black Beauty screeched to a halt at the destroyed bridge's edge. Kato set the car in reverse and began backing up.   
  


"What are you planning on?" John asked.   
  


Kato revved the Black Beauty's big engine until it growled like a giant beast. He released the brake and the car charged forward with a wild scream. At the edge of the bridge he slammed on the power lever. With a massive kick the big black car flew over open space.   
  


"Are you crazy?" John screamed. "The damned car's too damned big!" 

John's head hit the roof as the Black Beauty landed with a suspension jarring impact. The rear wheels spun for a breathless moment over the edge. Then the car surged forward as momentum forced them onto solid ground.   
  


John stared open-mouthed at the Green Hornet. The Green Hornet grimaced. "Kato," he said more calmly than John would have expected, "If your father and I had planned for the Black Beauty to fly, we would have given her wings."   
  


Again the Black Beauty was hot on the Humvee's tail. This time they were determined to stop it. A train whistle blasted a warning. In the clear morning light they could see a miles-long train winding its way toward a graded crossing. A bar slid across the road bed with yellow and red flashing lights and loud clanging.   
  


"We'll catch them at the crossing," Kato said eagerly.   
  


"Oh, my God," John gasped, "They're trying to beat the train."   
  


The Humvee tore through the bar without stopping. The train whistled and hooted, but it was too late. The Humvee shattered under the impact like a child's toy under a parent's car. Pieces of metal shooting out struck the slowing Black Beauty with enough force to star the windshield just below the roof-line on Kato's side.   
  


The three men watched as the train slid past them. Several miles down the way it would finally come to a stop to check out the fatal wreck. Already it had been radioed back to Amtrak. Soon enough the investigators would come out and document the pieces of metal and human wreckage.   
  


The Green Hornet sighed tiredly. "Let's go home, Kato," he said, closing his eyes as he leaned back into his seat.   
  
  
  


III 

  
  


Something had woken Casey up. For a few moments she was confused. She had fallen asleep on the long couch facing the townhouse's fireplace waiting for Britt and Lee to come home. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes and stretched. The fire in the large stone fireplace had long turned into grey ashes and light was streaming through the patio door curtains. Britt had not wanted her to wait up for him. He wanted her to stay home in Valley Grove, but she hated having to wait for him in the big house.   
  


Danielle had still not returned from Frank's place and John and Fatima had taken off for the Daily Sentinel as soon as word had gone out that the Green Hornet was involved in something at the Red Knight building. With bated breath she had listened to the news reports on the radio including the one about the DSTV copter going down. More reports followed that one, most of them confusing, until even as worried as she was, Casey had started to nod off. The last she had heard was that the pilot had been found injured, but safe and Fatima had shown up with the Arab fighters. Somehow with Ibn Ubayy she had convinced them to peacefully surrender to the police. Of John there was no word except for the belief that he had ridden off with the Green Hornet.   
  


Maybe that's why she had fallen asleep. She knew that Britt would do everything in his power to keep John safe. And John and Lee would keep Britt safe, the harder of the two jobs. Then she realized what had woken her up. It was the satisfying sound of a big car's heavy door closing. Throwing off the crocheted afghan, she headed for the garage. Still in the black chauffeur's uniform, but without the mask, Lee opened the door just as she reached the wide steps that lead up from the sunken livingroom to the entry way and the door leading to the garage. Behind him John gave a helping arm to his badly limping father. A quick thought flashed through her mind. _When had John gotten so big? Haven't I ever noticed before that he was now taller than his father and almost as broad in the shoulders? _   
  


Britt was still in the Green Hornet costume including the mask. Casey quickly restrained her gasp. Beneath the mask Britt's features were grey and drawn with exhaustion. The collar of his shirt was pink from the blood of a nasty cut across his throat. Britt pulled himself tall and straight, forcing himself to assume the air of invincibility. He forced a grin, "Good morning Casey," he said as he freed himself from his son's support. _Did he too feel the sudden gust of time passing before them?_ Casey wondered.   
  


Quickly regaining her composure, Casey hugged Lee and John. "You two boys look tired. Lee, why don't you take John with you to your quarters and you two get some rest," she said, taking control, brooking no dissent as only a mother could.   
  


John looked doubtfully at his father who was leaning heavily on the railing of the stairs leading up to the bedrooms upstairs. He was trying not to show the effort it was costing him just to merely stand there. "Your father and I will be upstairs if you need us," she said, coming to Britt's side. "Now go with Lee and get some rest," she ordered. When it looked like John might protest, she added firmly, "We'll be fine."   
  


For a moment it looked like John would press the issue, then Lee broke the spell. "C'mon, I'm beat. Let's hit the sack," he said.   
  


"Sure," John said, following Lee's lead. "By the way," he added, "Do you have anything to eat. I'm starving."   
  


"Yeah," Lee answered, "I got my own kitchen."   
  


Casey felt Britt's arm around her waist. She hugged him tightly, never wanting to let go, feeling the strength flow between them. She nestled against his chest. The overcoat was soaking wet, but she didn't care, only grasping all the tighter, tight enough, close enough to hear his heart beat. He nuzzled her hair. "I'm glad you waited," he whispered into her hair.   
  


  
  


John had not known what to expect when he entered Lee's quarters. Instead of being separated into a number of rooms, it was all one open space broken up into two levels. The lower level, the larger of the two areas, looked more like a gymnasium than living quarters. The hardwood floor supported exercise equipment such as a stationary bike, a nautilus machine, a treadmill and a rowing machine. Against the wall was set a weight bench and a rack of weights. Next to the weights was a rack of vicious looking spears and swords ornamented with thick red cords. Also in the area were all sorts of dummies and work out bags including an odd wooden device consisting of a large upright cylindrical block of wood from which several long round arms protruded.   
  


John followed Lee into a small upper area, screened off from the gym by sliding screens of plaited wood. A small but an efficient kitchen was against the wall closest to the entryway and was separated from the living room by a narrow counter and a set of three high stools. Lee went to a low table on which was a small altar of a Buddha figure surrounded by votive candles and sticks of incense. Lee lit a stick of incense and whispered a few words as he placed it into a holder near the statue. He smiled slightly under John's gaze, unsure of what the young newspaper man thought of his actions.   
  


"It's good to respect the old ways. You never know," he commented.   
  


"Yeah, I hear you," John said in agreement. "I have a feeling you were lucky to make it back this time."   
  


"Sometimes I kind of feel that way, but with Mr. Reid, I always know we will." Lee said. "Make your self at home," he offered.   
  


The living room itself was very Spartan with a pair of black futon couches, a low black square coffee table, a tall brass floor lamp and a pair of tall bookcases. Here, unlike in the gymnasium, Lee had made his own presence known. Scattered along the walls were several rock music posters and on the coffee table was a lava lamp, a camera, several lenses and some books on photography.   
  


John noticed that most of the books in the bookcase were in Chinese, but from the few titles in English he guessed that the owner's taste ran to philosophy and marital arts.   
  


"The books in the bookcases were my father's," Lee explained as he walked into the kitchen. "My father tried to teach me to read Chinese, but I never got the hang of it," he continued. "I'm thinking of donating them to a school in Chinatown, but I haven't found the time yet." He looked wistfully at the books, then shrugged. "I guess I'm not in a hurry to get rid of them. 'Sides the cases would look awfully empty without them."   
  


"I know what you mean," John said. "Do you have a phone I can use? I need to call my story in to the Sentinel."   
  


"Sure," Lee said as he handed John a cordless phone, "How are you planning on playing it?" he asked.   
  


"I'll stick to the facts, although I'd sure like to play up the Hornet as a hero, but I guess that wouldn't be any good for his reputation. Would it?"   
  


"That's probably what Mr. Reid would say, but I sure get tired of being chased by the cops all the time."   
  


Lee pulled out some sandwich meat, cheese, bread and mustard and laid them onto the counter, "'Fraid I'm not much of a cook, if it needs more than one pan or a microwave I'm out of luck."   
  


"Fine with me," John said as he waited for the City Room to answer. "What do you have to drink?"   
  


Lee searched through the refrigerator and cabinets. "I got an old pot of coffee, a few cokes, and two bottles of Coors," he said. "I could always nuke the coffee or fix a fresh pot," he offered.   
  


"No coffee for me, I'm going to have a hard enough time getting to sleep as it is, never mind adding caffeine to the mix." John raised a hand for silence when the City Editor came on line.   
  


After he had finished his report John joined Lee in a morning snack of sandwiches and beer. Even though his stomach growled, he found that he didn't much enjoy his food.   
  


"Is everything okay?" Lee asked.   
  


"Food's fine, but . . . "   
  


"But what?"   
  


"Fatima was there," John said faintly.   
  


"Yeah, we saw her with you and the pilot after the helicopter went down."   
  


"Was that flying gadget yours then?"   
  


"Yeah. So what happened to her? I thought I caught a glance of her with Ibn Ubayy at the Red Knight."   
  


"Yeah . . . , She was there. She's the one that got Ibrahim and his men to stand down. It's like she was a whole different person, not the girl I thought I was marrying." He stared at the half empty beer bottle in his hand, watching the suds slide slowly down the inside. "I think she's some kind of spy," he gave a short ironic laugh, "Like some kind of secret agent. I think she's marrying me because it's a mission, something she has to do. Not because she loves me."   
  


"Maybe you didn't hear things right. Could be it sounded that way, but it isn't," Lee offered.   
  


"No, I don't think so," John growled. "I feel like a damned idiot. I should've known better."   
  


"Known better what?" Lee asked, "Were there any clues before this that she might not be playing straight with you?"   
  


"I keep on wracking my head. There must have been something. Something that I should have picked up on. But I can't think of a thing. I was the one who started everything. We met at the embassy in Kahara. I needed someone to interpret some documents for me, and well, she was a lot easier to look at than the male interpreters and since we were just going to be working together over a bunch of papers and not going into the field . . . Well, one thing led to the other. We had a lot of fun touring the countryside and some of the local ruins and tourist traps. And a year later I proposed."   
  


"A year's a long time. I would think that if there was something suspicious about her you would've picked it up," Lee offered. "You don't strike me as somebody who'd let your hormones take over."   
  


John snorted, "You'd think so, wouldn't you? I thought that too, but . . . "   
  


Lee unsuccessfully tried to stifle a yawn. "Why don't you talk with her tomorrow? Maybe she has a logical explanation for what you saw and heard."   
  


"Yeah, maybe," John said doubtfully.   
  
  
  


  
  


Casey carefully followed Britt as he slowly walked up the stairs to his old bachelor rooms on the second floor. He leaned heavily on the railing, but she kept her distance, knowing he would be too proud to accept help.   
  


"Looks like you had a rough night," she said once they were in the bedroom.   
  


"Yeah, it was sheer luck that we got out in one piece," Britt said.   
  


His aqua-grey eyes were almost colorless with exhaustion and somewhere along the way his tie and scarf were lost and the overcoat torn. Casey reached up and removed the green mask. She caressed his broad forehead with her good hand, bringing it softly down along his sandpaper rough cheek. He grasped her hand, held it there, then kissed the palm of her hand, caressing her fingers with his own. He reached for her, tenderly brushing the hair way from her face. She grasped his hand, noticing the cuts and swollen knuckles. She remembered how so many years ago she had thought he had such beautiful hands for a man, long fingered, well shaped, not effeminate, but strong and capable. His hands were still strong, but now too many years of fighting with nothing but dress gloves on had taken their toll. Still they were good hands, and he was a good man.   
  


She kissed him, holding him tightly to her, feeling his arms wrap around her. She could feel his tiredness, feel the sag of his broad shoulders, feel the unsteadiness of his bad leg. Pulling back for a moment, she traced the cut along his throat, "How did this happen?" she asked, realizing that if it had been a little longer, or a little deeper . . .   
  


"Hakenkrueze," he answered ruefully as he touched the wound above his shirt collar. "He kicked the hell out of my left leg too. Damned jack booted Nazi."   
  


"So is this the end of it?" she asked. "Do you think Hakenkrueze and the APP were behind the bombing at the Sentinel?"   
  


"I don't know. Maybe the cops will find something at the Red Knight, or maybe Greenwood will tell them something, but I don't know. It doesn't feel right to me. The bombing at the Sentinel, just doesn't jibe with what I've seen of Hakenkrueze. He had no real beef with the Sentinel, outside of not caring for the media in general."   
  


"What about the work Ed was doing on them?" she asked.   
  


"Ed wasn't anywhere close enough to getting anything serious on them. I don't think Hakenkrueze would blow up the Sentinel just because of some reporter's fishing expedition. I think I would've heard from Greenwood if they thought Lowery was getting too close. Greenwood would've tried to convince me there was nothing for Lowery, and the Sentinel, to look into. Maybe the bombing would've come later if we had continued to investigate, but not when Lowery wasn't anywhere close to them."   
  


"And you don't think Ibrahim is behind it." she guessed.   
  


"No way. Ibrahim was only reacting to the Ayatollah's death. He has no interest in the Sentinel."   
  


"So, who do you think is behind the bombing at the paper, then?"   
  


"Damned if I know," Britt said with a tired sigh. "After all this we're back to square one. The Green Hornet will have to hit the streets again and see what else he can turn up."   
  


"Don't even think of it, not before you get some rest. I'll call the Sentinel and cancel your appointments for tomorrow," she offered as she began to unbutton what was left of his overcoat.   
  


"Better not, not after one of the biggest news nights this city has seen in years," Britt said as he shrugged his shoulders out of the coat.   
  


"You have a lot of great people on the staff, you don't need to be at the paper to make sure everything gets done. Besides you can have everything sent to your computer in Valley Grove," she suggested.   
  


"Yeah, but what about the repairs for my office and the city room? I'm going over the plans with the engineers tomorrow."   
  


"I'll move it to later in the day. Right now, you need your rest," she said.   
  


"Now Casey . . . " he began.   
  


"Britt . . . " she said.   
  


"Okay, but I have to take a shower. No way I'm getting into bed like this."   
  


"No problem," she said. "I'll get you a towel," she offered.   
  


  
  


She saw his shape through the pebbled surface of the shower door. Head bowed, facing into the shower's needle spray, he stood supporting most of his weight on his good leg and an arm stretched out to the tile wall. She tapped lightly on the door. "Need somebody to scrub your back?" she suggested lightly as she slid the door back.   
  


Britt looked up at her, the slight smile of welcome on his lips quickly broadened when he noticed her nakedness as she folded the towels in her arms into the nearby towel rack. "Casey, you always know how to make an old man happy," he commented. He frowned, noticing the cast on her left arm, "Shouldn't you keep that dry?"   
  


"The doctor told me that I can take a shower with it as long as I wrapped in some plastic wrap to keep it dry," she explained, pointing out the wrap around the cast. "Here, turn around," she ordered as she joined him in the shower. "Let me get your back first," she said, grabbing a washcloth and working a bar of soap into it.   
  


She started at the nape of his neck, moving the washcloth down to the slope of his broad shoulders, "You have a lot of tension here," she commented, slowly kneading the muscles of his neck and shoulders.   
  


"Yeah," Britt murmured, softly, "I always get tense there. Feels good," he said as her strong fingers worked the tight muscles until they began to relax.   
  


Casey moved the washcloth further down across his shoulders and down his back. His back was badly scarred from the attack that had forced him to retire as the Green Hornet so many years ago. Dimpled bullet scars and raised welts from the surgery to remove them was scattered across his back along with short and long scars from the various types of knives that had been thrust into his body throughout his career as the Green Hornet. Most of the scars were faded to nearly the color of his dark tan, but a few still snaked palely across his skin. Casey gently moved the washcloth over the dark blotches from the terrific bruising he had received from Hakenkrueze's pounding. He hissed in pain as she touched an especially sore spot over a kidney.   
  


"Sorry," she said. "Boy, you sure took a beating tonight," she added noticing the especially big bruise on his left leg. From the looks of it, she was surprised that he could put any weight on it at all, or considering that his leg was kept together by pins and wires it hadn't shattered again under the blow.   
  


Britt turned around and lifted her chin with a finger. He smiled into her eyes. "Yeah, but you should've seen the other guy," he said lightly. "I'm lucky," he continued, gently taking the washcloth from her hand, "I get to share a shower with a beautiful woman." He pulled her close, kissing her deeply as he stroked her buttocks with the washcloth.   
  


She laughed lightly as she snatched the washcloth back and began rubbing more soap into it. She drew the washcloth across his chest and watched as the suds flowed down his chest, down his stomach and around his legs. She moved the washcloth down his stomach, noticing that he had become aroused. "You're a dirty old man, Britt Reid," she added as she moved the soapy washcloth lower.   
  


"You're a dirty old woman, Mrs. Reid," he replied, pulling her closer with one hand while the other grasped her breast, a thumb playing with an erect nipple.   
  


Casey moaned with pleasure at his knowing touch. She knew he wanted her as much as she wanted him. She reached back to shut off the shower. "We better get out before we shrivel up like a bunch of prunes," she said as she playfully pulled him out of the shower.   
  


"Shriveling's not my problem at the moment," he commented ruefully.   
  


"Here let me dry you off," Casey said as she grabbed a towel. "Don't want to get the bed wet."   
  


Britt grabbed the other towel and threw it around her hips, pulling her toward him. "I don't think we'll be wet by the time we reach it."   
  


It was a lot time before they reached the bed, but the thick carpet under them was soft enough. Their lovemaking was leisurely, without the hyper kinetic gymnastics of a younger couple. They moved together in close harmony, taking their time, knowing the secret places that could send the other trembling in ecstasy. The cast on Casey's arm was worked around with giggles and deep laughter and Britt's strong arms more than made up for his badly bruised left leg.   
  


They finally ended up on top of the bed, relaxing in the golden glow of spent passion. Casey rested on top of Britt, her head nuzzling under his chin, listening to his slowing heart beat. She sighed contentedly as he gently caressed her back. Perhaps he would be wrong, she thought, perhaps the police would find evidence at the Red Knight that would tie up all the loose ends together. Perhaps tomorrow Frank would call to say that Danielle had finally turned up at a friend's house and, even better, had decided to come home. Britt's hand stopped. She looked up at Britt to see that his eyes had closed and his chest under her head rose and fell in the slow rhythm of sleep. Tomorrow, she thought, she hoped, everything would be okay. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, she amended it to, today. Later today.   
  



	6. 

Chapter Six   
  
  
  


The Man in the Red Hood   
  
  
  


I   
  
  
  


This was the first time in weeks that Detective Morrisey had visited the Daily Sentinel. He was amazed how much progress had taken place since the first time he had visited when everything was covered with yellow police tape. Now everywhere workmen were busy putting the city room and the publisher's office back together. The cold air of the windowless floor filled with the screaming of saws and electric drills, was occasionally punctuated by the earsplitting banging of hydraulic hammers. Through the doorless entryway of the anteroom to the publisher's office Morrisey could see several men grouped around some blueprints that were scattered on a large folding table. A young woman glanced up and walked toward him. Morrisey remembered her as Linda Travis, the girl who had helped him search through the Sentinel's hate mail the first time he was there.   
  


"May I help you?" she asked.   
  


"Yeah, I'd like to talk to John Reid please," the detective said.   
  


She smiled. "This way, please, Detective Morrisey, " she said as she led him toward the men in the office.   
  


"Mr. Reid . . . ," she started as they approached the group, then she hesitated as two men looked up from the plans.   
  


Morrisey recognized the older man with the steel grey hair and ice blue eyes as Britt Reid, but the younger blond man with the grey eyes he hadn't met before, but it wasn't hard to guess that this was Reid's son, John. The young man was slightly taller and not yet quite as broad across the shoulders, but he had the same broad forehead and square jaw. Both men wore heavy sweaters but the elder Reid had a turtleneck that came up to just below his chin. He came toward the detective, leaning heavily on the cane in his hand.   
  


"Good afternoon Detective Morrisey. How are you doing today?" the elder Reid said as he extended his hand.   
  


"Just fine, Mr. Reid," Morrisey said as he accepted Reid's hand, "Although I got to say you look like you went a few rounds with the heavy weight champion," Morrisey answered, noticing that Reid's face was sporting several bad bruises including a healing split lip.   
  


Reid smiled. "My prize fighting days are long gone. No, I'm just clumsy. I hit a bad patch of ice on my front stairs. Practically broke my damn neck when I fell."   
  


"Maybe next time you shouldn't lead with your chin," Morrisey suggested, not believing Reid, but choosing to keep his suspicions to himself.   
  


Reid nodded. "How can we help you, Detective?" he asked.   
  


"I need to ask Mr. John Reid a few questions. About the Green Hornet. If you don't mind," he added as he turned to the big blonde.   
  


"Oh course," Reid answered. "Miss Travis," he said addressing the secretary, "Would you mind taking these gentlemen to the commissary for some coffee and something to eat?"   
  


After the other men had left Reid waved Morrisey to a set of folding chairs gathered around another folding table. On the table was a phone and several half empty coffee cups. Morrisey noticed thankfully that this table was closer to a floor heater that was vainly fighting against the frigid air that whistled through the plywood sheets that covered the outside windows. He also noticed that while the other men had left the young oriental had stayed. Lee, he remembered, was the one who had discovered the bomb at the conference. Apparently he was part of the Reid inner circle.   
  


"How can I help you, Detective?" the younger Reid asked.   
  


"I got some questions about the Green Hornet I need to ask you," Morrisey began as he pulled out a chromed automatic pencil and a small notepad. At John's nod, he continued, "I read your story in the paper. I understand you rode with the Green Hornet and his man when they chased down Hakenkrueze and his boys."   
  


"Yes, that's right."   
  


"Okay. Now I understand that whole situation was supposed to be centered around a nuclear bomb."   
  


"That's what the Green Hornet said."   
  


"Did you ever see it?"   
  


"I saw a metal suitcase that everyone seemed to be fighting over."   
  


"But you didn't get a look inside it?"   
  


"No. I never had a chance to get close enough to look in it."   
  


"What about the Hornet?"   
  


"I don't think he ever got close to it either. When the police officers were in the middle of arresting the Green Hornet and Hakenkrueze, some of Hakenkrueze's men came by in a Hummer waving a metal suitcase around yelling that they had 'it'."   
  


"And so by 'it' you thought that it might be the nuclear device?"   
  


"Yes, or at least something as important."   
  


"What about after the train hit the Hummer? Did the Green Hornet stop and pick up anything? Say, maybe the metal suitcase?"   
  


"No, after we saw the train hit the Hummer, we left the scene."   
  


"And the Hornet took you home?"   
  


"He took me to our townhouse in the city."   
  


"Where's that?"   
  


After John gave him the address, Morrisey asked, "Why there? Aren't you staying at your parent's house in Valley Grove?"   
  


"I am, but that's way out of the way. I think if I had insisted on Valley Grove he would've dropped me off on the side of the road somewhere."   
  


"So you think the Hornet was heading in for the night?"   
  


"Yes, the man was obviously exhausted."   
  


"Could there be a chance that he returned to the crash scene?"   
  


"I doubt it. Why?"   
  


"Yes, Detective, why are you asking about the nuclear device?" Britt asked. "Didn't you find any trace of it at the crash site?"   
  


"No, that's the problem. We couldn't find anything near matching the description we had," Morrisey answered.   
  


"John told me that the destruction was pretty near total. Wouldn't it be close too impossible to identify what's left?"   
  


"Nope, our lab boys were pretty thorough. They didn't find a trace of it."   
  


"So you think the Hornet might have it," Britt supplied.   
  


"To be frank, I'm hoping he does," Morrisey reluctantly admitted.   
  


"Why?"   
  


"We had Greenwood in protective custody. He confirmed that there was a nuclear device in a metal suitcase."   
  


"And now it's missing," Reid supplied.   
  


"Yeah, and Greenwood's dead."   
  


"What? How?"   
  


"Headquarter's calling it suicide . . . "   
  


"But you don't think so."   
  


"No, I don't. It's not like it wouldn't be impossible. I can't say he had much to live for, but he was willing to turn state's evidence."   
  


"So you think he was silenced."   
  


"Yeah, I do, and I think now that the conference is done everybody's wanting to close the case. They figure that Hakenkrueze was behind everything including the Ayatollah's murder, Goode's murder and of course, the Sentinel bombing."   
  


"But you doubt it," Britt supplied.   
  


"Yeah, I do. It's too pat. There's no motive. There's no reason why Hakenkrueze, or his group, would do those things. Hell, Greenwood was hinting that Goode was in some kind of conspiracy with the APP and maybe even with something even bigger. Something that might be international in scope. So there's no reason that Hakenkrueze would kill Goode. Hell, I wouldn't doubt that one of Ibrahim's people did that job. It'd figure, you know, eye for an eye. One of their religious types gets knocked off, so they knock off one of ours."   
  


Even though he personally knew the detective was right, Britt couldn't tell him. That would lead to questions about how he knew. "Have you gone to Ibn Ubayy and his people about your suspicions?"   
  


"No can do. The state department has put them all under wraps, including the girl Fatima. Sorry, I heard you two were going to be married," he said to John. For a moment an uncomfortable silence came over the small group. Then Morrisey continued, "So you see, I'm left without any kind of lead. All of my suspects have been accounted for, and yet I still have all kinds of loose ends, especially the Sentinel bombing and the one attempted at the conference. The only suspect I'm left with is the Green Hornet. He's the only one with any kind of history with the Sentinel and he's up to his neck in this whole situation. I have no idea what part he has in it. Damn! I sure as hell wished those two cops hadn't let the Hornet go. I would've loved to have at least half an hour with the guy. He probably could've told us everything."   
  


"If those officers had not let the Green Hornet go," John pointed out, "There's a chance that Hakenkrueze might have gotten away. And if the bomb was in that suitcase I saw, the consequences could have been nothing less than world war three."   
  


"Yeah, there's that. But that's another thing. I don't think Hakenkrueze died in that wreck."   
  


"No?" echoed both Reids.   
  


"That's right. I don't think he did die. The lab guys went through all the pieces of the victims and they couldn't find anything they can positively identify as Hakenkrueze."   
  


Morrisey could tell that what he said didn't sit well with the three men before him especially the elder Reid. Although he tried to hide it, Morrisey could see the brief spark of alarm in the man's pale eyes. All his instincts were telling him they were up to something. He made a mental note to watch the Reid family and their friend more closely in the future.   
  


"And yet it sounds to me like the higher ups are calling the case closed," Britt Reid said.   
  


"Yeah, that's right."   
  


"So you're not here just because you wanted to ask some questions."   
  


"Well, yeah, I am here to ask questions, but that's just part of it."   
  


"And the other part?"   
  


"The Daily Sentinel has a long history with the Green Hornet. I've heard that sometimes you can get messages to him. I need to ask him some questions. I'm sure he has the answers I need. It would be all unofficial, just a meeting on neutral ground. I hate leaving loose ends."   
  


"I agree with you, Detective. I hate loose ends as much as you do. Even though the commissioner and the mayor want to call the case closed I don't think it's anywhere near being closed," Britt said.   
  


"But . . . "   
  


"Any contacts I had with the Green Hornet are long gone. I have no way to contact him. However, you could always try a personal ad in the Sentinel, but there's no guarantee he'll see it, or if he'll respond. I can always ask my people to keep theirs eyes and ears open, especially if there's a chance that Hakenkrueze might still be alive."   
  


Morrisey began to reply but the secretary came into the office, "Excuse me, Mr. Reid," she said, "There's a call from Mr. Scanlon on line two. He says it's important."   
  


Morrisey watched thoughtfully as the publisher took the call. He noticed the man visibly blanching under his dark tan and how his knuckles whitened from his grip on the phone. "Are you sure, she hasn't left any messages at your place?" he said into the phone. "I see," he continued, his voice sounding more worried. "And you've spoken to Casey?" he asked. Then finally he replaced the phone in its cradle.   
  


"That was Frank Scanlon," he explained with as little energy in his voice as a dead battery. "He said that Danielle never returned to his place."   
  


"Maybe she went to a friend's house," John said encouragingly.   
  


"Frank thought that too, but he checked around some of her friends and they haven't heard from her. He also called your mother and she hasn't heard from Dani as well. She also checked with some of Dani's other friends and no luck there either."   
  


"That's odd," Lee said, "I spoke to her right after an aerobics class and she said she was going out with someone."   
  


"Did she say who it was?" Britt asked.   
  


"No, but I saw the car . . . " Lee said hopefully.   
  


"Would you recognize it again if you saw it?" Morrisey asked.   
  


"Sure. It was a light blue Honda Civic. A '93, I think."   
  


"What about the license plate?" the detective asked.   
  


"Wait a minute. Now I remember where I've seen it before. I think it might belong to James O'Leary," Lee said quickly.   
  


"Who's he?" Morrisey asked.   
  


"He's a photographer on the Sentinel's staff," Britt supplied, a grim determination appearing in his pale eyes. "He's also a member of Goode's church," he added. He grabbed up the phone and growled, "Get James O'Leary up here, now."   
  


Morrisey watched the three men with interest as they waited for the photographer to show up in the publisher's office. He decided that he was going to play the fly on the wall and just listen. He wanted to see the publisher in action. A nagging thought kept on tugging at the corners of his brain. There was no way Reid could have gotten those bruises from falling down stairs. Those kind of bruises only came from a fight and considering Reid's size and build it had to be one hell of a knock down, drag out fight. The younger Reid also sported quite a few bruises and Morrisey remembered hearing from officers Ching and Robinson that young Reid had been in the middle of the Green Hornet's fight with Hakenkrueze and his men. The elder Reid would be just about the right age, Morrisey thought, and the young oriental . . . A slow thought began to dawn on him. He was going to have to watch these three very closely in the future. There's no way he was going to accuse one of the city's most prominent men until he had airtight proof.   
  


When the photographer finally arrived Morrisey felt a twinge of sympathy for the young man. The red head was pale and pudgy with faded freckles. His small stature seeming even smaller by being confronted by the much taller Reids. Although Britt Reid continued to lean heavily on his cane, he wasn't a man to take lightly. Especially if he was your boss and worried sick about his daughter.   
  


"Where's Danielle?" Reid demanded bluntly.   
  


"I don't know," the young man stammered.   
  


"Lee saw her get into your car. Where is she?" Reid pressed.   
  


"Isn't she at Mr. Scanlon's place?" O'Leary asked.   
  


"No, she isn't," John Reid joined in. "Where did you see her last?"   
  


"At the coffee shop on Fourth and Main, near Mr. Scanlon's place. We were going to see a movie, but she changed her mind. She wanted to be left alone to do some thinking. She said she would walk back when she was ready."   
  


Britt rocked onto the balls of his feet, his free hand clenching and unclenching angrily. "When was that?" he demanded.   
  


"About seven," O'Leary answered.   
  


Reid shot a look at Lee who nodded, "I saw them leaving around five."   
  


"You were together for two hours," Reid continued his interrogation, "What did you talk about? Did she give you any idea that she might not go directly to Mr. Scanlon's home?"   
  


"At first we talked about what movie we might go to, but it turned out she wasn't much in the mood to see anything. She wouldn't tell me what was bothering her. I guess it had something to with you," O'Leary blushed redly under Reid's intense glare. "I'm sorry, sir," he added.   
  


"Why didn't you insist on taking her to Mr. Scanlon's home? It was dark, too dark for a woman to be walking alone," Britt accused.   
  


"I tried, Mr. Reid, honest. But she insisted. I couldn't change her mind. If anything happened to her, Mr. Reid . . . I'm awful sorry, it's all my fault," O'Leary said miserably.   
  


Reid nodded, tight-lipped. "I understand, young man." He sighed tiredly. "That's all for now. Thanks for your help."   
  


O'Leary quickly backed out of the office, the relief obvious on his boyish face.   
  
  
  


"That's Dani, for you," John commented. "Unfortunately."   
  


Britt looked up from his frustrated glare at the floor. "Yeah," he agreed glumly.   
  


"I shouldn't have been here," Morrisey said as he pulled himself erect in his chair. "A lawyer could fry my ass, if it was found out O'Leary was questioned without being read his rights." 

"I don't remember you asking any questions," Reid pointed out.   
  


"No, I didn't," the detective admitted, "You and your son did a good job on your own. I'd sure hate to be interviewed by either one of you."   
  


A slight glitter of amusement appeared in Reid's pale eyes, "I assure you that my interview techniques are usually not so intense."   
  


Morrisey caught Lee in the corner of his eye quickly looking down at his feet, seemingly trying to hide a quick smile. Apparently Reid was known by his employees for his interrogation techniques. _Or was it something else_? the detective wondered. He didn't see Reid as a martinet, but how else would the young oriental have seen his employer conduct such intense questioning? _Curiouser and curiouser_.   
  


Reid, either unnoticing Lee's reaction, or pretending not to, continued, "However, I do think you're in the clear. The last time I heard the Miranda act does not apply to civilians. Or newspapermen. Yet."   
  


Morrisey nodded his agreement. He pulled out his notebook and automatic pencil again. "You mentioned something earlier that Mr. Scanlon had already contacted some of your daughter's friends and that your wife also checked with some others. I'd like to get a list of their names and addresses so we can check this out." 

"Of course," Britt replied. "Those should be in her address book. I think it's still with her luggage at our house. I can call my wife so she can have it ready for you to pick up at our place in Valley Grove. You still have our address. Right?"   
  


"Yeah, and I want that O'Leary guy's address and phone number too. We'll have to pull him in for more formal questioning."   
  


"Anything you need, Detective Morrisey. Ask Miss Travis for any information you need on O'Leary," Britt replied.   
  


He turned to Lee, "You were one of the last people to see Miss Reid, do you 

remember what she was wearing?"   
  


"Sure," Lee replied. "She was wearing a white and purple down jacket that came to about her knees. She was also wearing a turquoise exercise bra, a pink and turquoise thong leotard, turquoise tights, and white aerobic shoes . . . No, wait, she changed those for a pair of black snow boots. And she was wearing her hair in a pony tail with a pink scrunchy."   
  


"Mr. Reid, do you have a good picture of your daughter, we could distribute?"   
  


Reid pulled a picture out his wallet and gave it to the detective. Morrisey gave a low whistle despite himself. The girl didn't look a thing like her blonde brother, but was rather a raven haired beauty. "I'll need all the stats too, you know, height, weight, age and so on."   
  


After Britt had given him all the needed information, Morrisey turned to leave, then turned back toward Reid, "Don't worry, Mr. Reid. We'll do everything in our power to find your daughter."   
  
  
  


After the detective had left, Britt turned to his son and Lee. "I'm still wondering about O'Leary's part in Dani's disappearance. I want you to check his place out while he's still at work."   
  


"That's breaking and entering," Lee pointed out.   
  


Britt's eyebrows rose. "Since when has that bothered you?"   
  


Lee shrugged. "I guess you got a point there."   
  


"Does that mean we can take the car out when we do it?" John asked hopefully.   
  


"No!" Britt answered sharply.   
  
  
  


II   
  
  
  


Danielle froze at the sound of footsteps coming down the creaking wooden cellar stairs. _He had come too soon_, she thought, _a few minutes more_. _That's all I needed_. She miserably squeezed her eyes shut against her fear. The concrete floor under her was cold through her thin exercise clothes.   
  


The man stared down at her as she huddled against the far wall. He was dressed in dark red robes with a tall peaked hood that covered his entire face. All that was visible were eyes that shone with an unnatural manic light. Her heart stopped as he knelt beside her, pulling her bound hands into view. One hand was cut and blood stained the ropes around her wrists. A piece of broken glass was laying on the ground behind her.   
  


"So, I came just in time," the man's voice hissed. "Get to your feet!" he demanded, roughly pulling her up. "Your father's gotten word that you've disappeared," he continued. He drew out a knife. Its blade gleamed wickedly in the light of the bare bulb overhead.   
  


"What are you planning on doing?" she asked shakily as she tried to pull away from his iron grip on her upper arm. "You won't get away with this. My father won't rest until he catches you," she warned.   
  


He roughly pulled her close to him, the knife's blade pricking her chin. "Hush woman. One more word and I'll slice your throat open."   
  


Frightened, biting her lip, Danielle nodded meekly.   
  


The knife moved away from her throat. She felt a pulling as it sliced through the rope around her wrists. The man pushed her away from him with enough force to send her tumbling to the concrete floor. "Strip!" he demanded.   
  


"No!" she screamed, her heart thumping rapidly in her chest. "I'll die before I let you rape me!" She launched herself at the man, her hands clawing for the man's eyes.   
  


Far too easily he threw her off. "Stupid woman, whore of the Devil. Don't pride yourself. I'd rather consort with the beasts than sully myself with the cursed touch of your filthy flesh!" he screamed back at her. He threw a brown bundle at her. "Put this on," he said.   
  


She slowly got to her feet. Pulling the bundle apart, she saw that it was a robe of coarse wool.   
  


"No more will you tempt me. Remove everything and put that on," he commanded.   
  


She drew the robe over her head and over her clothes. The man growled, "I said take off all your clothes."   
  


"I am, I am," she said nervously. At her feet, first the leotard appeared, then the tights and lastly the exercise bra. Then man motioned and she moved away from the discarded clothing.   
  


"Kneel down," he commanded again, "And put your hands behind your back."   
  


She knelt and again felt ropes tighten around her wrists. A frightened yelp escaped from her lips as the man pulled her head roughly back by her ponytail. "Don't," she cried as the man sliced through her hair, cutting it free but still contained by its terry cloth binding.   
  


The man slapped her, leaving a read welt on her right cheek. "I said silence."   
  


She nodded as she forced down the sobs that were tightening her throat. Her eyes burned and her head throbbed painfully as she helplessly fought the tears that flowed down her cheeks. "_Oh, my God_," she thought, _I'm in the hands of a madman. _   
  
  
  


III   
  
  
  
  
  


Britt didn't know how long he had stared at the blueprints in front of him. He had hoped that the work on renovating the city room and his office would help distract him from his worries. It didn't work. All of those blue lines had faded into a meaningless jumble of lines and shapes. The only thing that he could do is wait, the very thing he absolutely hated to do.   
  


Linda Travis appeared in front of him as if by magic. "Mr. Reid," she said hesitantly. "A package has just arrived for you."   
  


Britt frowned. "By courier?" he asked. This whole nightmare had started this way. _Would it end the same way?_ he wondered. "Has it been through the X-ray machine downstairs?" he asked.   
  


"Yes, sir. It came through clean, but . . . " she hesitated again.   
  


"But . . . " Britt said.   
  


"There seems to be some clothes in it," she said, her eyes behind the wire framed glasses wide with fear and concern.   
  


"I see," Britt said slowly. It was almost inevitable, but he felt his gut twist into an unbearable knot of fear, something he refused to show in front of the girl standing before him. "What about the courier?" he asked.   
  


"He was from Ajax. We held him downstairs until we could check him out."   
  


"And he did."   
  


The girl nodded.   
  


Britt forced himself a small smile, "I imagine he didn't much like having to hang around."   
  


"He didn't but I gave him a big tip," she replied, returning her employer's smile, feeling that he would take care of everything, that everything would be okay.   
  


"I'll reimburse you," he offered as he reached into his pocket.   
  


"Don't worry about it. It's on me. Uh, Mr. Reid . . . " she began.   
  


"Yes."   
  


"We're behind you all the way, Mr. Reid. Everybody at the paper. Whatever you need us to do, we'll do it," she blushed slightly. "Word travels real quick here."   
  


"Tell me about it," Britt said wryly.   
  


"Mr. Reid," she said looking down at the box, "I have a bad feeling about this," she continued as she wrapped her arms around herself. It was cold in the ruined office, but that wasn't what was sending a chill down her back. Or his.   
  


Britt pulled out a knife from his pocket and cut through the box. Inside was another box decorated in white and gold with angels. His hands shook as he reached to pull the inner box out. Biting his lip, he pulled them away clenched in white knuckled fists until the shaking stopped. He gingerly lifted the box's lid. Even though the X-ray machine downstairs had cleared it, he still worried about the possibility of a bomb.   
  


He wished a bomb had been inside. The pain would be have been less. Instead were a brightly colored leotard, tights and exercise bra, the same Lee had said that Danielle was wearing. Even if he had doubts, the long hank of raven hair bound by a terry cloth band confirmed his worse fears. The world spun around him as his legs turned to jelly. His knees began to buckle as his vision began to blacken.   
  


"Mr. Reid, are you okay?" Linda Travis' panicked voice echoed into his crumbling universe. She was deathly afraid that she would see her boss die of a heart attack right in front of her.   
  


Britt nodded, not trusting his voice. He had to remain strong, for his staff, and especially for his family. But how many more tragedies must he withstand?   
  


"Are those your daughter's clothes?" Miss Travis asked.   
  


Britt nodded again. "Yeah, he croaked out, "Everything she was wearing."   
  


"I'll call Detective Morrisey," she said, heading for the telephone on the other table. 

"No," Britt said, reaching out for her arm. "Not yet. The kidnapper will know that his package has arrived. He'll be calling any minute."   
  


The phone rang just as he spoke. Linda walked over to the phone but waited for Britt's signal to pick it up. He allowed it to ring two more times, then nodded. "Mr. Reid's office," she said shakily into the mouthpiece as Britt moved to stand beside her. She listened for a moment. "That's the receptionist downstairs. She said my father's here to pick me up," she said. "He's been taking me back and forth from work since the explosion," she explained, blushing in embarrassment. "I think he worries too much."   
  


"All fathers worry about their daughters," Britt replied, trying to hide the ache in his heart. "Go home," he added.   
  


"I could stay here," she offered. "I can ask him to come back later."   
  


"No, go home with your father so he won't have to worry about you. I'll be fine."   
  


"But Mr. Reid . . . " she protested.   
  


"I'll be fine, Miss Travis. I'll call the police as soon as the kidnapper calls," he said trying to force a reassuring smile he didn't feel.   
  


  
  


Britt watched the girl go, glad that at least one father wouldn't be worrying about his daughter's safety tonight. He wished he was so lucky. Lifting the clothes out of the box, he forced himself to critically examine them. The outfit was new, probably this was the first time it had been worn. Yet it was extremely dirty, covered in a grey dust that smelled of concrete and oil. Possibly furnace oil. The scent of the dust brought to his mind old newspapers, old wood and mildew.   
  


Morrisey had said that the bomb that had been used on the Sentinel was the type that could be made in somebody's basement. Basement, Britt thought, a good place to build a bomb or hide a frightened girl. The problem was there were millions of basements in this city. Almost every house and apartment had a basement, as did every building. As the city had built upward, so had it built downward until hitting either bedrock or water. No help at all.   
  


The box wasn't any better. It could have been bought at any store this time of the year when people were busy sending Christmas packages all over the world. The wrapping paper wasn't much hope either. He remembered hearing that the police had traced the same paper found from the Grand Hotel bomb to one of the more popular designs sold through all the Target stores in the city. Cheap paper and very common.   
  


He frowned angrily. It was a complete bust. He'd have to wait until he had word from Lee and John. Not that he had any hopes from that corner either. O'Leary was as unlikely a suspect as he could think of. He didn't know the young man very well, and had written him off as just one more of Dr. Goode's faithful flock. Totally harmless, and surely having no grudges, personal or otherwise against the Sentinel or himself. Of course, he reminded himself, considering Goode's experiments with mind control, anything might be possible. He shook his head, no way, he thought. Lee's performance at Dr. Goode's place had been just that, a performance. There was no way a Milquetoast like O'Leary could be moved to out and out murder.   
  


Britt stuffed the clothes back into the box. There wasn't a thing he could do except to wait for the kidnapper's call. And worry whether the monster had given her anything to wear, or worse whether he had raped her. If the bastard had, Britt promised himself, he'd rip the man's balls off with his bare hands.   
  


In his black mood, Britt didn't realize how long the phone had been ringing, until it finally penetrated the gloom in which he was drowning. "Reid," he barked into the phone.   
  


"Daddy," Danielle sobbed on the other end.   
  


"Danielle. Are you okay?"   
  


"He won't let me talk long," she said in a rush. "I'm okay, for now," her voice broke into a choked sob. "He says that you are to get into your car and I'll give you more instructions then." There was a moment of silence, too long for Britt even if it had lasted only a few seconds. "He says no police, or I'm dead."   
  


After the too loud click, Britt stood frozen, his heart beating hard enough to burst his chest. He couldn't call the police, that much was clear. It sounded like the kidnapper was planning on sending him on a wild goose chase all around town until he was sure that Reid wasn't being trailed. He quickly searched around the cluttered office until he found his briefcase under a stack of rolled up blueprints. From an inner pocket of the briefcase he pulled out a small disk. It was a small locator device, a bug much smaller and slimmer than the ones he used years ago, but also much more powerful.   
  


He pulled off his sweater and undid the bandage that was wrapped around his upper left arm. Next he grabbed out of his briefcase an extra roll of gauze and a long gauze pad. He placed the bug under the gauze pad over the knife wound and wound the new gauze over the pad, making sure that the bug was nearly undetectable through the pad.   
  


"Casey," he said, taking a chance on making a phone call. "I don't have much time. Detective Morrisey is on his way over to the house to get a look at Danielle's address book. Don't tell him this, but I've gotten word from the kidnapper . . . "   
  


Casey gasped, "Kidnapper."   
  


"Don't tell him," he reminded her. "Get a hold of John and Lee. Tell them they can use the car. They'll know what I mean. I have to go. I love you," he added.   
  


Before Casey could say another word, Britt was gone, leaving her to whisper, "I love you, too," to the hum of the dead line.   
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


Britt snatched up the ringing phone through the open door of his car, praying that it hadn't been too long. "Reid here."   
  


"Dad," Danielle answered, then paused. Britt guessed she was listening to her kidnapper. "He said that next time he won't allow the phone to ring so long."   
  


"Tell him it won't happen again. I got stopped by someone who had some questions. You know how it is at the paper. Something always comes up when you're heading out the door."   
  


"He accepts it this time," Danielle said after relaying the message to her captor, "but he says this will be last time. He wants you to drive north on fifth street until you're called again."   
  


As he had expected, Britt spent the next two hours aimlessly wandering around the city, at times having to deal with late afternoon traffic. Then during the last half hour a pattern began to develop as he began doubling back and forth on himself as the sun slowly began to set in the west. Britt had the feeling that the kidnapper was somewhere close, making sure that the newspaper publisher was not being followed. Finally he was instructed to pull over, get out of the car and wait.   
  


For another half hour he waited in the cold wind until another car pulled up behind his. A sticker from a small local car rental agency on the front bumper told him that the car had probably been rented just for that night. Britt had to fight down a grin as the man fought his way out of the car while trying to keep his face and head covered by a tall peaked hood. The man's robe, like the hood, was made of dark red satin and embellished with a poorly hand painted picture of a dragon impaled by a burning cross. Britt could have almost found the entire situation comical, for the man so much smaller than himself and much slighter in build was obviously an amateur. However, the steady grip on the snub-nosed .38 was anything but funny.   
  


"Strip," the man ordered in a muffled voice.   
  


"It's too cold for that," Britt protested, "It's less than 12 degrees out."   
  


The .38 rose toward Britt's heart, "Do you want to be more uncomfortable?"   
  


"That uncomfortable, no," Britt answered as he started to take off his coat. "How is my daughter?" he asked.   
  


"She is well enough, as long as you cooperate," the man answered.   
  


Britt quickly removed all of his clothes until he was barefooted in icy slush and clad only in his briefs. "That's enough," the man ordered as Britt forced himself not to visibly shiver in front of the robed man. "What's that?" the man demanded, pointing the gun toward the bandages on Britt's arm.   
  


"I was hurt during the explosion at the Sentinel," Britt explained.   
  


"Take it off," the man demanded.   
  


Britt unwound the bandage as he was ordered. As he removed the gauze pad the bug slipped to the ground before he could catch it. For a moment Britt held his breath, hoping that the man had not seen it. No luck. The man slammed the gun against Britt's face, sending him to the ground. Britt quickly rolled to his feet, ready to take on the smaller man. His first angry impulse to jump the small man was immediately quelled by the sight of the gun pointed between his eyes and the click of the safety being released.   
  


"God damn lying bastard!" the man screamed as he ground his booted foot into the bug. "I told you not to contact the police!"   
  


"I didn't call the police," Britt protested. "A police detective was already there when the package arrived."   
  


Britt warily watched the gun as it wavered in indecision. _It would be better to take a hopeless chance . . . _   
  


"Get in the car," the man ordered, finally making up his mind, "Now."   
  


"Will my daughter be where we will be going?" Britt asked.   
  


"She is," the man said curtly as they pulled away from the curb in the rental car, leaving Britt's clothes in a heap beside his car.   
  
  
  
  
  


IV   
  
  
  
  
  


Trying to look casual, John stood guard as Lee vaulted over a side wall into the small duplex. He waited for what seemed forever and was starting to consider climbing over the wall too when the door behind him opened.   
  


"What took you so long?" he asked as he slipped rapidly in.   
  


"The only window I could get into was one in the bathroom," Lee explained. "And I could barely get through it as it was."   
  


The duplex apartment was small and sparsely furnished, looking more like an impersonal hotel room than someone's room. However, instead of cheap mass produced reproductions in plastic frames, large black and white photos in chrome frames hung on all the walls. Starkly dramatic, they illustrated riots, tragic accidents and the horrifying level of violence human beings could perpetrate against each other.   
  


"Good work," John commented, "At least from a technical point of view, but I sure wouldn't want it hanging on my walls."   
  


"Me neither," Lee agreed as he followed John from room to room, "Do you have any idea what we're looking for?"   
  


"Nope. You're the masked crime-fighter. What do you think?"   
  


"Masked crime-fighter-in-training," Lee corrected. He picked up a trash can and rifled through its contents. Finding nothing, he set it back down with a disgusted sigh. "It'll be long time before I get to your father's level. I guess we're supposed to looking for some kind of clue about whether he knows anything about your sister's disappearance."   
  


"I don't know him very well," John said, "I've been out of the country a lot, and I've never worked an assignment with him. You've worked with him. What do you think?"   
  


Lee shrugged, "Damned if I know. He seems to be a nice guy, you know, real religious and stuff, but I always feel like he's riding on the edge. Like, well, like he's too nice. Nobody can act that nice all the time."   
  


"Yeah, isn't that how they describe mass murderers?" John said, "They're always the quiet ones who never bothered anybody. They're always the ones people least suspect."   
  


"Kind of makes a case for being a bad-tempered s.o.b.," Lee commented wryly.   
  


"I wonder where this goes to," John said, noticing a locked door in the tiny kitchen.   
  


"Probably the basement," Lee guessed. "I noticed some windows that might belong to a basement while I was outside. They were all locked and blacked out."   
  


"Sounds like a good place to check out." John gave the locked door a solid shaking. "No way I can open it." As Lee knelt to look at the lock, John commented, "I thought all you crime-fighter types have lock picks and stuff."   
  


"Junior crime-fighter. Remember? Besides your father has something that usually works a lot better than any old lock pick."   
  


"Yeah, I noticed. Must be rough on the ears though. And there sure as hell isn't anything subtle about it." John gave the door another shake. "So what do you think?"   
  


"Move back," Lee answered, waving John out of the kitchen. Lee leapt into the air and gave the door an experimental kick. It held solidly. Lee stepped further back and took a few deep breaths. With an earsplitting catlike _Kai,_ he leaped again into the air and slammed a mighty kick against the door. Lee caught his forward motion just in time to stop himself from falling down the stairs. He grinned at the astonished John and deeply bowed as he motioned for the younger Reid to go first.   
  


John stopped cold on the narrow steps, nearly getting bowled over by Lee who not expected him to stop so suddenly. He could barely believe the bizarre scene below him. Hundreds of white votive candles on a stepped table, flickering from deep inside their red glass containers, cast bizarre shadows against red velvet draped walls. Above table was a huge crucifix bearing an agonized Christ that seemed to writhe in the fitful light. A congregation of plaster and wooden statues of the Virgin Mary and the saints stood in silent attendance, their cracked and chipped shapes seeming to sway in tune to some silent hymn.   
  


Lee reached past John to pull on the chain of the bare bulb hanging over his head. The light was not very bright, but by its very ordinariness chased the nightmare vision back to the realm of John's imagination. 

"James said he had bought all the statues from that church downtown that's being turned into a mosque," Lee said commented as he followed John down the rest of the stairs.   
  


"Looks more like a shrine than a collection," John said, still feeling spooked. Finally at the bottom of the stairs he could that the small basement was separated into two parts. One was the shrine which John with a chill still running down his back, made a point of avoiding. The other was more prosaic with a dryer washer combination and a large work bench against the wall. 

"I don't know if your sister was held here or not," Lee said, finding some cut ropes on the dirty floor near the workbench, "But it looks like somebody was tied up here."   
  


"What makes you think that?" John asked.   
  


"These ropes," Lee said, "You can see that they were cut instead of being untied."   
  


"Yeah, and look here," John said as he examined the ropes, "You can see where somebody was trying to cut them with something dull. And they're stained too, like somebody might have been fighting against the ropes."   
  


"Think it could've been your sister?"   
  


"If it was, I'd sure as Hell wish I knew where she is now," John said grimly.   
  


Lee nodded his agreement, "And O'Leary," he added.   
  


"Let's look around a little more, then I want to get call the Sentinel. If O'Leary's still there, I got a lot more questions to ask him," John said.   
  


"You might to ask him about the bombing, too," Lee said, as he rummaged through several boxes on the workbench.   
  


John joined him and gave a low whistle of surprise, "Dynamite, blasting caps, timers. Everything you need to make a bomb."   
  


Shaking his head sadly, Lee said, "I never would've thought he'd be the one behind the bombing at the Sentinel. The one at the conference I could almost understand. But why the Sentinel?"   
  


"I don't know," John answered, "But I have a feeling that when we get our hands on that bastard we'll get all the answers we want. One way or the other," he added harshly.   
  


"Including where your sister is," Lee said.   
  


John nodded his agreement, his pale grey eyes reminding Lee of the same look he was learning to recognize in the elder Reid as one that meant no good for anyone who chose to cross him.   
  
  
  


  
  


John snatched his chiming cell phone out from under his sportscar's seat just as he sat down. "Sorry, Mom," he said, recognizing his mother's voice, "I had to leave the cell phone in the car. I didn't want it to go off while we were checking things out," he explained.   
  


"That's okay," Casey said in a rush, "I'm glad I reached you. Your father just called. He didn't have much time to say anything, but he did say that your sister's been kidnaped and that he had been contacted by the kidnapper. He said I needed to tell you that you could use the car."   
  


"The car?" John echoed.   
  


"Yes, he said you would understand. Does he mean the Black Beauty?" she asked.   
  


"I don't know," John said doubtfully, "I was kidding him about borrowing it, but . . . "   
  


"That must be what he means then," Casey said, "He couldn't explain anything. He just said that your sister was okay. For now. I know he's going to meet the kidnapper. You and Lee will have to go after him. If anything should happen to him or your sister . . . " her voice caught as she choked down a sob of fear.   
  


"Don't worry, Mom. We're on it. We'll take care of everything," John 

assured her.   
  
  
  


  
  


John shook his head wryly as he followed Lee down the short flight of stairs leading to the townhouse's garage. Dressed in the black chauffeur's uniform, Lee moved lightly, almost skipping as he led the way. "You really dig this crime-fighting stuff, don't you?" he remarked.   
  


Lee's smile answered John's question, then fell as he remembered why they were going out this night. His eyes still gleamed with barely suppressed excitement. "Hell," he said with a shrug, "It's a lot better than sitting around worrying and waiting for somebody to do something."   
  


"That's for damn sure," John said.   
  


Lee stopped in front of a pair on pegboards on the garage's wall. "Watch," he said. As John watched in interest he reached up to a rachet wrench and twisted the head on it twice without removing it from the pegboard. A small panel opened between the pegboards revealing a set of switches and buttons. He flipped a switch and the lights overhead dimmed to a dim green. Then he directed John's attention to the beige Chrysler 300 convertible parked in the garage.   
  


"Hey, I think I've seen that car before," John said in surprise.   
  


"Yeah, it's your father's. He's letting me use it. It's a good thing he never gets rid of anything. Otherwise I'd have a Hell of a time finding something that would fit."   
  


"Fit?"   
  


"Yeah," Lee grinned, obviously enjoying himself. "Now, watch," he said. He pressed a button and heavy rams appeared out of the corners of the convertible's front and rear bumpers. Another button was pressed and big clamps rose out of the floor, solidly grabbing onto the rams. John shot a questioning look at Lee. Lee grinned. "Wait."   
  


Lee pressed another button and beneath his feet John could feel the rumble of a powerful motor came to life. Then John's jaw dropped in surprise as the floor under the convertible began to tip over. It continued to tilt as the garage's secret was revealed. The Black Beauty rose from its hiding place, the dim light playing along its big central grille like fingers across the strings of a harp.   
  


Lee touched one final button and the left-hand doors of the big car opened. John nodded in admiration. The other night he'd had little chance to study the Black Beauty except to notice that it packed a frightening amount of firepower. Now it gleamed softly in the green light with only a few touches of chrome trim along the upper edges of it sides and a small dart of chrome on its nose to break up the soft satin black finish. Yet his first impression of its terrible might remained. It was a huge car, low-slung, with a massive trunk that was as long as the hood with its formidably protruding grille. It dominated the garage with broad-shouldered menace. He could not have imagined a more suitable vehicle for a gangland boss of the Green Hornet's supposed stature.   
  


"So that's what you were doing all last night," John remarked, "Last time I saw it, it was covered with mud from its wheels to its roof."   
  


"No way I'd leave the Black Beauty dirty," Lee admitted. "Now we must look the part," he added as he opened a hidden panel in the wall beside them.   
  


"Is this why you asked me to wear a dark suit?" John asked.   
  


"Yes, otherwise the overcoat won't fit right," Lee explained as he pulled out a long white silk scarf, "Same thing with the dark green tie. If you're going to ride in the Black Beauty, you have to look the part. Here, take this scarf and wrap it around like this," he said as he placed the scarf around John's neck. "Just cross it across your chest so that it covers the collar and lapels of your suit coat. Now the coat itself," he said, pulling out a midnight green overcoat. "I found one of your father's old ones. It's still in pretty good shape," he added. He opened the coat, "Inside are pockets for the weapons."   
  


"Will I have to use them?" John asked.   
  


"If you're going to play the part of the Green Hornet, you may need to." Lee answered. "Too bad we don't have the time for you to practice with them, but there's not much to them. The gas gun is a little lighter than an ordinary gun and the trigger is above the butt instead of under the barrel. Since it sprays out a sleeping gas, you don't have to worry about being accurate. Just make sure that you catch yourself or me in the side-draft, or we'll wind up taking a nap at the wrong time.   
  


Now the Hornet Sting is something else. It's mainly a close-in weapon so you don't have to worry about too much about accuracy. That's a good thing too. It uses sound waves and the more power you have to use the worse it vibrates. If you don't have a good hold on it, it'll kick itself right out of you hands."   
  


"What about real guns?" John asked.   
  


"The Green Hornet doesn't use them. Your father's kind of old-fashioned that way. He's said that the Green Hornet isn't a killer, even if the guy deserves it. He's told me that it's up to the justice system to decide if somebody is guilty and to punish them. It's not the Green Hornet's place to be judge, jury and executioner. He just makes sure that all the evidence is there to make a conviction stick. I guess it's some kind of family tradition."   
  


"Yeah, I guess so," John agreed, thinking of the masked man's portrait in his father's study. "Yet this Hornet Sting, you've been telling me about, and that car. They're both deadly weapons."   
  


"That's why we have to be careful with them. The Sting can punch through steel like it was butter, so you have to be careful about aiming it at anybody. Don't ever do it, unless you use the lowest setting. Even then it hurts like the worst bee, uh, hornet, sting you've ever had. Same thing with the Black Beauty's rockets. We always have to make sure we don't hit a target in a way that somebody might get killed. We also have to watch out for innocent bystanders too. The Sting and the Black Beauty are a big responsibility."   
  


"Have you ever killed anybody?" John asked.   
  


"Yeah, once. We blew a helicopter out of the air with the Black Beauty's rockets. It was a one in a million shot. If we hadn't made it, we would've been toast. Funny thing, it bothered the hell out of your father. My Dad told me it always bothered your father, even if it was by accident. Something to do with karma, he said."   
  


John slipped into the coat, feeling more than its weight on his shoulders. Lee pulled a green plastic mask and snap brim hat of the same color from the closet. John took the mask first, noticing that it was molded to the shape of his father's features. "How did you feel when you first put on your father's mask," he asked.   
  


"Honored," Lee answered.   
  


"And?"   
  


"Scared as Hell. Your father's a hard man to follow. I still don't think I'll ever measure up to his standards."   
  


"Yeah, I know what you mean. You know, I've always felt torn between being my own man and being like my father. I worship the man, but damn, his shoes are hard to fill. I always feel like everybody at the Sentinel is comparing me with him. I don't think I'll ever measure up. I guess the only saving grace is that he knows what I'm going through since he went through it with his own father," John gave a short laugh. "You know some of the old timers, like Mike, still talk about him like he's a wet-behind-the-ears kid. They call him "college boy". Now, not only am I trying to figuratively fill his shoes, but I have to wear the same mask he's worn. And if I fail, I won't just merely be a laughing stock, I'll be dead, and maybe you, Dad and Danielle as well."   
  


"We could forget about this whole Green Hornet thing. We could follow up without this mask and costume shtick," Lee suggested.   
  


"No way. If Dad said we could use the car, and we both know he meant the Black Beauty, then there's got to be something important about it. There's something we need that goes with the Black Beauty. And the Green Hornet."   
  


"I see what you mean," Lee said, "Especially since he seemed so against the idea of you ever taking on the Green Hornet role."   
  


"Is there anything special about the Black Beauty, besides the weapons that is," John asked, "Anything that might help us track somebody?"   
  


Lee's eyes lit up. "Yeah, it has a tracking device. That's it, I bet your father has a bug on him."   
  


"Then we had better get moving," John said quickly as he donned the mask and the hat.   
  


Lee nodded his agreement and snatched his own mask and hat out of the closet before heading for the Black Beauty. John followed Lee to the car and climbed into the back seat behind him. Lee, now in the role of the Green Hornet's aide Kato, twisted back to talk over the back of his seat.   
  


"To your right in the back of this seat is the weapons locker," he said.   
  


John felt around, pressing gently until he heard a soft click. He opened the narrow door that was almost as tall the seatback.   
  


"The black rod with the gold bands is the Hornet Sting that I was telling you about," Kato continued as John pulled it out of its bracket. "Flip the domed end to the side," he instructed.   
  


The air was filled a high-pitched hum. "That means it's powered up and ready to use." Kato said.   
  


"Hornet Sting check," John said, noticing Kato's nod of approval and stowed it into an inner pocket, a slight but significant weight against his chest.   
  


"The green pistol is the Hornet Gas Gun," Kato said as John removed it from the bracket next to the one the sting had occupied. "Slide the butt open like you would an automatic and pull out the cartridge inside it."   
  


John did as he was told. "It looks like it's almost full," he said, noticing the level of the green liquid inside the cartridge.   
  


"Good. Take two more just in case."   
  


John snapped the cartridge back into the gas gun, then noticing a small pressure gauge, checked it. "Gas Gun, check," he said before stowing it into a pocket next to the sting. "What's the other stuff?" he asked.   
  


"There's a mini flash, Green Hornet style," Kato added wryly, as John noted the flash's slender green shaft and the odd bit of curved metal that slid forward to form a handle. "I have no idea why it's made that way. Sometimes our fathers had odd notions of how to design something. Must've been a 60's thing."   
  


"There's also some flash and smoke bombs that might come in handy too," he said as he watched John stow them into the pockets of his coat.   
  


After he had pulled out everything that might be useful, John sat back into his seat and took a deep breath.   
  


"Are you ready?" Kato asked.   
  


"Yeah," John answered, wondering what he was getting himself into.   
  


"Don't worry, you'll do okay. At least this will only be temporary."   
  


"Let's hope so. At least this time," John answered. He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. He was scared as hell of failing, and yet along with it he felt the delicious stirring of excitement. It felt so right. He smiled as he opened his eyes. "Let's roll, Kato."   
  


"Yes sir, Green Hornet, sir."   
  


  
  


"We got the signal," the Green Hornet said as a slow, steady beep came from the palely glowing circular screen set in the console in front of him. "He's moving erratically, making a lot of turns."   
  


"The kidnapper's probably making him go all over town to make sure someone isn't following him," Kato said.   
  


"How close should we stay so we won't lose the signal?" the Green Hornet asked.   
  


"Ten miles is about the outside limit, but we should stay closer than that. I don't want to be too far away in case we lose the signal, but I don't want the kidnapper to spot us either."   
  


"There seems to be a pattern that's developing. I think if we stay in the area between 10th and 18th and east Old Market near Riverside we'll be able still to stay in range without risking being spotted or losing the signal." The Green Hornet frowned in thought. "We could get closer in. Do you think even if he saw us he'd think we're involved?" he asked.   
  


"I'd hate to take the chance. Not with Dani and Mr. Reid's lives on the line."   
  


"You got a point. Well, as long as we stay in that general area I think we should be close enough in case something happens," John decided.   
  
  
  


  
  


For nearly another hour they kept a close watch on the tracking signal as it wound around the streets, frequently seeming to change without purpose or logic but always in the same general area. Then it came to a stop. The Green Hornet checked the small map on the locator's screen. "He's stopped around 15th and Oak."   
  


"We'll close in slowly. I don't want to spook our man," Kato said as he turned the Black Beauty onto Oak street. They moved slowly, trying to melt in the light traffic on the street. A prowl car passed them, unknowingly, but still giving both men in the big black car a momentary start.   
  


"Damn!" the Green Hornet suddenly cursed.   
  


"What?"   
  


"The signal's gone dead."   
  


"Dead?"   
  


"Yeah, one moment it was there, just like it's been for the past half hour and now it's gone."   
  


"Damn," Kato echoed softly as the Black Beauty picked up speed.   
  
  
  


After parking the Black Beauty just out of sight, the Green Hornet and Kato cautiously approached Britt's Cadillac.   
  


"Still no sign of Mr. Reid," Kato commented.   
  


"Yeah, but this is where the signal stopped," the Green Hornet said. He moved closer to the car. Behind it he spotted Britt's clothing. "Well, wherever he is, I hope it's heated," he said grimly as he showed Kato the clothes and the crushed locator.   
  
  
  


  
  


The rental car finally came to a stop in front of a shuttered neo-gothic church. The red-robed man gestured with his gun for Britt to follow him out of the car. Britt gritted his teeth as the harsh wind bit at his bare skin. It had been barely warm enough in the car, but outside the wind made the cold unbearable. He wanted nothing more to curl up into a ball as his bare skin first pinkened then whitened under the harsh cold. Instead he forced himself to appear unaffected by the chill. As his unprotected feet broke through the snow's hard crust he walked proudly erect, leading the way to the church's iron bound doors as the man in red followed, gun in hand.   
  


It wasn't much warmer inside the unheated church, but at least it was out of the wind. Its interior was completely bare of the normal trappings. There were no pews, no altar, no choir loft, only a black cavern of stone pillars that appeared ghostly grey in the hissing light of a single Coleman lantern that was placed on the ground next to a large rough-hewn cross   
  


A small movement caught Britt's eyes. Near the edges of the lantern's fitful light he could see a slight form tied against one of the pillars. "Dani," Britt said softly. He turned to his captor. "I'm here now, let her go," he asked.   
  


From behind the hood a muffled voice rumbled with bitter amusement, "You're always the one for giving orders, aren't you? Even freezing your ass off, you still figure you're the boss." The man laughed. "I'll clue you in, Reid. You're not in charge here, I am. I'm the one who's giving the orders here. Not you."   
  


He motioned for Britt to move forward. Britt paused for a moment, thinking about his chances if he rushed the much smaller man. The gun waved menacingly. "Don't even think of it," came the warning.   
  


Britt took a deep breath, he had to remain calm, and not allow his feelings to get the better of him. His life and Dani's depended on him staying cool. A wry thought crossed his mind. In this chill staying cool was the least of his problems. He bowed his head in surrender. "You're right. You're the boss here. Could I at least talk to my daughter? I'd like to know that she's all right," he said meekly. "Please," he added.   
  


Ice-water blue eyes doubtfully regarded Britt. After several heartbeats the hood finally nodded. "Go to her. I have not touched her. No tricks," was the harsh warning.   
  


Britt walked slowly under the hooded man's watchful glare._ No tricks_, Britt reminded himself. _Not yet, at least_. Danielle was dressed in a coarse brown robe and her hands were tightly tied around the base of the pillar. Her dark hair raggedly hung around her face. Seeing Danielle's bruised and tear-streaked face almost made him forget his resolve to remain calm.   
  


"Daddy?" she asked shakily, tears rolling down her cheeks.   
  


"It's okay, baby," Britt said, his voice cracking against his will. "I'm here now. Everything going to be okay." He wrapped his arms around her the best he could with the pillar in the way. He could feel her slender body shake against his as she sobbed uncontrollably. Grieving over her lost innocence, Britt was torn between sharing his daughter's tears, and raging at the man responsible. He could do neither. All he could his hold her as tightly as he could, shushing her fears, trying to reassure her, like he used to do when she was a tiny baby in his arms.   
  


He glared over his daughter's head at their kidnapper. "How could you do this? What kind of monster are you? She hasn't done anything to deserve this." He stroked her hair, dark like his used to be so many years ago. "Whatever I've done, whatever you've think I've done to you, she's not a part of it." He was no longer the powerful newspaper publisher, no longer the feared Green Hornet, just a sorrowing father. "I beg you, let her go. Do whatever you want to me, but for God's sake, let her go."   
  


"That's why I'm doing this. For God's sake. I have you and your daughter here for God's sake. Everything I have done has been in God's name, but every time you and yours have interfered. Against all odds you survived the bombing at the Daily Sentinel, and then your man interfered when I tried to strike down those believers of a false prophet at that unholy conference. The only time any one of yours did anything right was when your son's fiancee killed that so-called holy man."   
  


"What?" Britt said, not believing what he had heard.   
  


"So, you didn't know after all," the hooded man gave a short barking laugh. "You've taken a viper to your breast and you didn't even know it. But I saw, yes, I saw. I was going to choke the very life out of that bearded demon, I was going to squeeze and squeeze until the devil revealed himself, but she got there first. I saw her leave, and when I entered he was already dead. Even that small victory, that small task, one of yours took from me. But you didn't know, did you?" the man said relishing Britt's dawning comprehension. "All the time you were trying to make those rag-heads to get along, your son's woman was working against you. Ironic, isn't it?" The man paced agitatedly back and forth as he talked. "But now God has delivered you into my hands." His voice lowered in awe. "The Lord works in great and mysterious ways."   
  


"So what are you going to do to us?" Britt asked.   
  


"To your daughter, nothing," the man answered. "But she is not as innocent as you would have me believe. We are all sinners on this earth, including her, and you. But most especially the daughters of Eve, for they betrayed mankind by tempting Adam. Oh, how your daughter sorely tempted me. The way she moved, like a song on the wind, the way her hair floated in the air, like a thing alive of itself, the way her gaze would melt my legs beneath me. But you see I did not succumb. I have remained pure. I have remained pure to my cause, despite all temptations. Even when all those around succumbed to the temptation of power like that liar Hakenkrueze or fame like Dr. Goode, I have remained true to the one God, even when tempted by your daughter's evil wiles. But no harm will come to her, at least not from me. That will come on the Day of Judgement."   
  


"Then you will let her go," Britt said hopefully.   
  


"Yes, but not yet. She must bear witness to the punishment of one who would offer succor to those who distort God's word."   
  


"Please don't hurt my father," Danielle pleaded fearfully. "He's a good man."   
  


"Too many good men do wrong," the hooded man replied bitterly. "Your father must suffer for his sins."   
  


"Daddy . . . " Danielle pleaded as Britt pushed himself to his feet. For the first time she noticed how badly bruised and beaten he was. She had no idea what had happened to him and she fearfully wondered how close was he to his limit. 

Britt forced a reassuring smile, "Don't worry about me, baby, I'll be okay." He turned to the hooded man. "What do you have in mind for me?" he asked.   
  


"Our Lord and Savior died on the cross for the sins of the world," came the reply, "Can you do no less for your own sins?"   
  


Britt looked down at the cross, noticing that it was attached to a set of ropes and pulleys to make it more easy to raise when burdened with a heavy weight. His. "No, I can do no less. Not if it will stop you and save my daughter."   
  


"Don't fool yourself, Reid. I will not free her for your sake, or hers. It will be her duty to testify of this lesson to all sinners. But I will not stop. I will punish those I chose until all sinners have repented." With the gun he waved Britt to the side of the cross. "Lay down," he ordered.   
  


Britt did as he was told, stretching each arm out, trying to balance his broad frame on the narrow wooden form, wincing painfully as he raised his left leg to rest on top of his right. The hooded man knelt down and with leather thongs tightly bound Britt's ankles and wrists to the cross. He tested them, making sure they would hold fast.   
  


"If you survive, you will be a changed man. You will have shared the passion of our precious Lord and emerge truly saved." He removed one of his gloves and showed Britt his open palm, revealing a deep depression in the center of it. "You see, I too was an unbeliever, but now I know the truth."   
  


He grabbed up a heavy wooden mallet and a large nail that looked more like a railroad spike. "Scream all that you want," he said, "For that is the Devil leaving your body."   
  


Biting his lip, Britt tried to keep his palm open, trying not to struggle as he watched the mallet begin its descent for the nail centered in his open hand. A loud hum reverberated through the barren building until Britt's ears were ringing. It was a very sweet sound. The church's heavy doors violently shook and trembled under the assault until they slammed open with a loud bang and billowing smoke. Although he had expected it, Britt gaped at the sight of the Green Hornet and Kato stepping through the shattered doors. A small voice inside him wryly noted, so this is what it feels like to be on the other side of that mask.   
  


The hooded man snatched up the mallet he dropped in his surprise and drove it down toward the nail he still held in Britt's open palm. The Hornet Sting screamed again. The man echoed that scream in excruciating pain. Britt dodged his head barely in time to prevent the falling mallet from braining him, but he saw enough to see the terrible damage the sting had done to the man's hand. The man fumbled with his remaining hand for the gun he had laid down beside the cross.   
  


"Don't even think about it," the Green Hornet warned.   
  


"You have no right!" the hooded man raged through tears of pain and frustration. "You have no right to interfere. This is none of your business."   
  


"I have every right," the Green Hornet gritted, storm grey eyes hard behind the green mask. "Move away from Reid." He ordered.   
  


His hooded head shaking in disbelief, the man slowly backed away as the Green Hornet and Kato moved closer. The Green Hornet stopped beside the bound publisher, but Kato went to Danielle and began untying her hands.   
  


"No!" the hooded man screamed as he snatched up the lantern and flung it at Kato and Danielle. Kato threw himself in front of the flying lantern. His jacket erupted in flames as the lantern's spilling gas caught fire. He quickly pulled the jacket off and stamped on it until the flames were all out. 

The hooded man snatched up the gun and fired at the Green Hornet. The Green Hornet dodged the bullet. He swung the Hornet Sting around, catching the man against the side of his head. But the fight was not yet out of him. He turned his fall into a roll and tumbled himself into the Green Hornet's legs, bowling him down like a nine pin. Before the Green Hornet could recover the hooded man regained his legs and charged for a nearby open door with Kato close at his heels.   
  


For a few moments there was complete silence after both men had disappeared through the door. Then there was a loud crash, a scream and again silence. Kato reemerged alone, and breathless.   
  


"What happened?" Britt demanded. He was wearing the Green Hornet's coat, that somehow, oddly to him, did not quite fit.   
  


"Well," Kato said slowly, "He's not going to be going anywhere for a while. You better see for yourself."   
  


Danielle, Britt and the Green Hornet followed him out into a small frozen yard behind the church. A large old wooden statue of Christ had fallen on top of the hooded man. "It kind of just tipped over. He's alive, but like I said he's not going to be going anywhere real soon. It's kind of ironic, if you ask me." He gestured with his chin toward the bloodied rags he had wrapped around what remained of the man's right hand. "I think he's going to called Lefty by everybody after this," he added with a meaningful look at the sting in the Green Hornet's hand.   
  


"But he does have a name already," Britt said as he knelt beside the prone man and removed the crumpled hood.   
  


"James O'Leary. Just like we figured," the Green Hornet said.   
  


"Is that how you found us?" Britt asked as he tiredly rose to his feet. Danielle nestled into his arms. They'd support each other.   
  


"Yeah," Kato said, "Mrs. Reid got through to us right after we finished checking out his place. There's quite a set up he has there. There some kind of weird shrine there and the makings of another bomb."   
  


Britt nodded, "He admitted was the one behind the bombs at the Sentinel and at the conference. But how did you track us after O'Leary smashed the locator?" he asked.   
  


"Kato remembered that O'Leary was planning on a protest against the conversion of this church into a mosque. We figured since most of the statues in his shrine came from here, this would be the best place to find him, and you." The Green Hornet looked down at the unconscious photographer. "So that just about finishes things. Doesn't it? O'Leary bombed the Sentinel, knocked off the Ayatollah. And in return Ibn Ubayy's aide and his boys knocked off Dr. Goode. So it looks like all of the loose ends are finally wrapped up."   
  


"I'm afraid not," Britt said, "There's one last loose end. I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," he gazed meaningfully at the Green Hornet, but this time not seeing the masked man, but his son.   
  
  
  



	7. 

Chapter 7   
  


An Ending and Beginnings   
  
  
  


I   
  
  
  
  
  


John glumly watched the long line of vehicles coming toward the house. News travels fast, especially when it concerned a family as prominent as the Reids. He still couldn't quite believe the news that his father had revealed the night before. Sure, all it did was confirm the uneasy suspicions he had about Fatima. After that business at the Red Knight he would have been a fool not to suspect that she was a lot more than a mere interpreter who had fallen in love with a homesick journalist. Still, the truth was painful. He was no more than a pawn in the bizarre chess game called international relations. What made it even worse was that Fatima was there, having a light chat with his mother when they had finally arrived at home. Fatima had been released after questioning by the police and the scene of domestic tranquility almost broke his heart. Then the accusations started. And the confirmations and explanations. He was at the stage where he didn't know what were the lies and what were the truths. Problem was the lies hurt a lot less.   
  


The police led the long line and ironically, a news van from the Daily Sentinel followed close behind. He knew that this was news after all. News with a capital N. His family's involvement would have been impossible to silence. Not when they were right at the forefront of everything that had happened from the bombing to the conference to the fact that a Sentinel photographer was a bomber and a Reid fiancee an agent from a foreign country. It was only business, the public's right to know. His family's business. John snorted. Ironic, his family's in the middle of this and the Sentinel couldn't even get an exclusive out of it.   
  


The police car pulled up first and the news crews began their preparations. Cameras were pulled out of news vans and suv's. Microphones were placed on extensions to catch the slightest word and news anchors began their sound checks. _Testing, testing_. DSTV's news anchor, Elena personally knew John, knew his connection to the Sentinel and this mess. Should've been her job to lob a few questions his way, to start the feeding frenzy. She didn't. She ignored him, pretended he wasn't anybody. Professional courtesy and respect for the Reid family tied up in a single glance. John was lucky his parents had not thrown their children into the limelight when they were growing up. He and Danielle were little recognized outside of the Sentinel and if the Sentinel crew dismissed him as unimportant so would the out-of-towners.   
  


A grim faced Detective Morrisey stepped out of the police car's driver side as his much younger curly haired partner, Weston, stepped out of the passenger side. John stepped further away from the front door allowing the two men to enter the house. For the first time John noticed a plain black sedan pulling up behind the black and white. Two big men with black suits and mirrored sunglasses left the sedan followed by a much smaller swarthy man, mustachioed but with the same kind of glasses. Must be some kind of uniform for the secret service types, like trench coats used to be for reporters, John figured as they passed by him.   
  


He could have gone back in. It was getting cold outside, but John preferred to wait outside. Everything that could have been said, should have been said, was already said. A little while later, just long enough to make the news anchors chilly and to make the assorted news crews look at each other in doubt, Morrisey, Weston and the sunglassed men stepped out of the Reid home. Questions were thrown out and thrown back with 'no comments' as Fatima, her elbow held by the swarthy man, stepped out into the crowd. Britt and Casey looked on, not answering the questions sent their way. The questions would be answered later, at a news conference. At the Sentinel, of course.   
  


No matter what she had done, Fatima's beauty still held John spellbound. Her amber eyes were alight with proud defiance and her long golden-olive streaked brown hair flowed unrestrained down her shoulders. Cameras flashed and video cameras whirred as the anchors described the vision before them. Hungrily the reporters started to crowd forward as the police and the girl walked toward the police car. Britt and Casey followed close behind. Then someone shoved and someone fell. John could've sworn he saw a cane slip surreptitiously between a competitor's feet. Britt didn't much care for the guy anyway. People began falling over each other and Fatima pulled free from the man in charge of her. She ran through the crowd to shouts and screams to stop her. Someone fired. Weston. And the girl collapsed to the ground.   
  


Britt knelt beside the girl, and pressed his fingers against her throat. "She's dead," he announced to everyone around. Front page news. Britt's face and his statement went around the world.   
  
  
  
  
  


II   
  
  
  
  
  


Breathing slowly, focusing his concentration on nothing but calm, Lee moved slowly through the traditional forms of Gung Fu, each one ancient and timeless. There were times for the more rapid movements, when he moved with eye-blurring speed. But now he wanted to clear his mind, to find his center. One would have thought that after all the missing parts of the puzzle that had followed the bombing of the Sentinel had been found and placed in their proper places things would have immediately quieted down. That had been far from the case.   
  


What had followed was, to Lee, a surprising unleashing of holiday spirit at the Daily Sentinel. It was like only through burying the entire newspaper in holiday cheer could the painful memories of the past several weeks be laid to rest. The wounded building was completely decorated in tinsel garlands, bright decorations and lights. Christmas trees were installed on every floor as were long swags of fresh evergreens so that walking through the front door was like walking into a forest. Lee did not first feel like taking part in the festivities. He felt an outsider and could not understand how people could find anything to celebrate. He felt that the good cheer was forced, as though everyone was putting on a happy face, pretending that nothing had happened.   
  


It took the Sentinel Christmas party to change his mind. Only the staff and their families were invited, and everyone was there including those who had barely survived the explosion. Even young Thomas White and his mother were there. Young White was in a wheel chair and his head was confined in a metal and plastic contraption that held it immobile, but as Lee found out after talking to his mother, the young black man had insisted on coming. She added that he had never missed a Sentinel party, and was not about to miss this one.   
  


Then as he watched the Reid family circulating the room he realized why there were no lawsuits filed against the Sentinel and that none would be forthcoming. How could somebody sue against your family? That's what the Sentinel was, family. Britt Reid was father and mentor to the younger staff members and best friend to the older ones. Mrs. Reid was Den Mother, keeping everything running smoothly, smoothing ruffled feelings when necessary and making sure everything was in its proper place. Even the younger Reids had their places as favorites of the old hands and inter generational intermediaries for the younger ones. Lee found himself joining in the party, realizing for the first time that the most important times for a family to join together and celebrate is when times are the hardest.   
  
  
  


Now on the evening of Christmas Day, things were finally quiet. The holiday visits and parties were over with. The presents unwrapped, oohed over and placed back under the tree for display, the holiday turkey had been eaten and the dirty dishes placed in the dishwasher. The visitors had left and now the Reid family had separated out for a time of peace and quiet. So Lee had found himself in the gym, working out, trying still to absorb everything that had happened to him since he had first shown up in Britt Reid's office a very angry young man. 

He heard the soft click of the door being pressed shut. Danielle stood there shyly, her back against the door. The leotard set of emerald green and sky blue fitted her slender body like a second skin.   
  


"I like the way that new leotard looks on you," he said as he wiped the sweat from his body with a towel.   
  


"Thanks, I wanted to show youhow it fitted. Thanks for giving it to me," she replied.   
  


"Well, I couldn't think of what else to give you, and since the other one was ruined . . . "   
  


"I appreciate it," Danielle said as she nervously ran her fingers through her short hair. "I was wondering where you went to."   
  


"It looked like everything was breaking up so I decided I could use the time to work out a bit."   
  


Danielle nodded, coming toward uncertainly. "I kind of thought that."   
  


"I like your hair," Lee added, wondering what she had in mind.   
  


She smiled slightly. "My hairdresser gave me hell for the way it was chopped up." She shuddered at the memory. "He did the best he could."   
  


"He did a good job."   
  


"Thanks. Uh, Lee, she began, then hesitated. "I was awfully unfair to you."   
  


"Don't worry about it. I can understand what you were feeling. It must have been terrible for you to get the news about your father's past the way you did."   
  


"Yeah, it was, but I think I'm starting to get over it. So, you knew all about it when you were growing up?" she asked.   
  


"Yeah. Those stories about their adventures were some of my best bedtime stories."   
  


"But didn't your father worry about you telling somebody about it?"   
  


"He told me it was our secret. I kind of enjoyed having something that we shared just between the two of us, kind of like having a secret language. It made our relationship special."   
  


"I still wish my father could have trusted me, us, that way."   
  


"I don't think it was a matter of trust. He wanted to forget it had ever happened."   
  


She looked at him questioningly, "Why? I get the impression it wasn't something he should have been ashamed of."   
  


"I think it's because he still wanted to be the Green Hornet. And he couldn't," Lee said, explaining something he was only just beginning to understand himself.   
  


"He couldn't because your father left him," Danielle said slowly.   
  


"My father had to," Lee explained, wondering if Danielle's warm overtures 

would again turn icy.   
  


"Because my dad was hurt so badly and your father felt it was his fault," she said in understanding.   
  


"That's about it."   
  


"Then why did your father tell you then? Why did he tell you all those stories? I think he would have wanted to forget too, especially because of that."   
  


"I think it had to do with destiny. The Chinese are big on that. You know, the son restoring the family honor and all that."   
  


"I see. Someday the Green Hornet would again require a Kato."   
  


"Something like that I guess," Lee agreed with a shrug.   
  


Danielle nodded thoughtfully, wondering if anyone, including Lee, fully understood the meaning of that. Something had happened at that church, something momentous when Lee and John had burst into it in their father's costumes. A shudder ran through her as she remembered the horror of being at a madman's mercy.   
  


"What's wrong?" Lee asked, seeing the fear in her eyes.   
  


"I was thinking about what had happened. You know that business with O'Leary."   
  


"It's all over now."   
  


Danielle shook her head. "This time it's over, but . . . "   
  


"But. ?"   
  


"Lee, I have never felt so afraid in my entire life. I felt so frightened, so, so . . . so . . . helpless. I don't want to ever feel that way again." She chewed her lower lip uncertainly, "I want you to teach me Gung fu."   
  


"It takes a long time to learn Gung fu. I began almost before I could walk. You can't become an expert in it overnight," Lee explained.   
  


"I know it'll take a long time, but could you at least teach me to protect myself?" she asked.   
  


"I'd be glad to," Lee said, happy to see Danielle returning his smile.   
  
  
  
  
  


III   
  
  
  
  
  


John refolded the note he had been reading. It was from Fatima, left behind with the small box he held in his other hand. Inside the box was the engagement ring they had bought in Kahara. He had just proposed and giddily in love they had wandered the great souk, the main bazaar in Kahara City, looking for the perfect ring. The sun was hot that day, as it always was in that mid eastern country, and the bazaar was a kaleidoscope of bright colors, multicolored fabrics and shining brass and silver metalwork of a multitude of shapes and sizes. The air was as bright and golden as the brass and the dust, redolent with the scent of exotic spices, animals and human beings, faded the bright light into a dreamlike haze. Or was that haze merely the memory of a happier time, John wondered. It was already blurring away like a photograph left too long in the sun.   
  


Her laughing smile though was still sharp in his mind as was the face of the old man who had sold them the ring. It was inside a cave of a shop, dark and cool, out of the sun, cramped and small. The old man's face was a timeless parchment of wrinkles but the yellowed brown eyes were bright with a long life, well-lived and witnessing much, overcoming whatever came.   
  


They had examined all of the jewelry in the shop's dim light over cups of hot sweet tea. Many of the pieces shined brightly, too shiny and new, sterile of life. Then he had pulled out a ring hidden near the back of the glass case. The gold was dull and the stones of turquoise, lapis and coral seemed to be lifeless, but the blending of stone and metal into a complex arabesque caught their eyes, like Aladdin's magic lantern, suggesting something beyond the surface.   
  


"It just needs a little bit of polishing," Fatima had said, refusing any other ring that the old man pressed upon them. With only the minimal haggling just to keep form, they had gladly paid the price old man had asked and walked away with the ring on Fatima's hand.   
  


He thought of the last time he had seen her. A reporter always knows of ways to get information so he was there when the white executive jet came in from Kahara. Even now the Kaharans were acting as intermediaries for her homeland which preferred to remain anonymous in this entire mess. Later she would transfer to another plane that would take her back to her true home. She was a black figure, invisible in the all-covering chador. Only her amber eyes gleamed from the slits above the veil. Her guards had approached him angrily, but with an imperious wave of her hand they had stepped back.   
  


"I knew you would be here," she had said.   
  


"I had to see you one last time," John had said.   
  


"Why? All that can be said, has been said already," she answered.   
  


"I just can't believe there was nothing between us."   
  


There was only silence, a quiet weighing.   
  


"So was this really all just a part of your plan to kill the Ayatollah?" he pressed.   
  


"No. That was an adjustment we had to make after the girl was killed."   
  


"So what about me? How did I figure in your plans?"   
  


Was there a smile behind that veil? "Tradition."   
  


"Tradition?"   
  


"Yes. In the old days it was traditional for countries to form alliances through marriage. That was the plan. My duty was to become a faithful wife to you, and bear you many children."   
  


John frowned, not understanding.   
  


"You are the heir to one of the most powerful newspapers in this country. That newspaper and the television station could, in time, be built into a communications empire. If you are ambitious enough."   
  


"Or if my wife is ambitious enough."   
  


"Yes," Fatima replied. "The Muslim world needs more friends in the West. A man whose wife is Muslim would be one of those friends."   
  


"And a powerful one at that," John added for her. "At least after my father died. So was killing him and probably my mother also part of those plans?" he asked bitterly.   
  


"No. Your father is already one we count among our friends. No violence to you or your family was ever intended."   
  


"And so you threw that all away to kill the Ayatollah."   
  


"Yes, it had to be done. He was the focus of a movement that would have embroiled the Mideast in the worst violence it has seen yet."   
  


"The way those guys reacted at the Red Knight. What you said there. You've killed other people before, haven't you?"   
  


"I have done whatever my country required," she said without emotion.   
  


"Would you have killed me if your country required it?" he asked.   
  


Again he could feel her weighing him invisibly behind the veil. Her steady gaze gave him no clue of what she was thinking. Finally very softly she replied, "I would have regretted it."   
  


Then she had turned away from him, letting those words hang between them. He watched as the dark men, her countrymen he told himself, escort her to the jetway. She had turned to hand one of the guards something, then glided down the jetway.   
  


John opened the note, the memory of the white jet disappearing into the starlit night sharp in his mind. "Beloved" was all it said.   
  
  
  


IV   
  


He placed the box and note back into his pocket. It was time to put the past behind him or at least seek out some human company before he became too maudlin. He found his parents in the living room. Lit only by the lights of the Christmas tree and the glowing embers in the fireplace they were dancing to music that only the two of them could hear. Their voices were the murmurs of two people deeply in love. John sighed. They had earned their peace, he had no right to bother them now. Perhaps someone closer to his own age would be better company.   
  


He found Lee and Danielle in the gym. Unnoticed, he watched them through the open door. Danielle had a white headband with Chinese lettering wrapped around her forehead, keeping her shortened hair out of her eyes. Her eyes were bright and she was flushed from hard work. Or excitement, John thought. Lee too looked like he had been working hard as he demonstrated some martial art technique to the dark-haired girl.   
  


Lee grasped Danielle's shoulders. She turned, twisted and sent him flying to the mat on the floor. Danielle squealed with delight, then hesitated uncertainly unsure whether to clap or to make sure that her victim was all right. John watched as her face fell when Lee failed to get up from the mat. She knelt beside the prone man only to find herself captured in his arms. John shook his head as they rolled around the mat, accompanied by giggles and laughter, in mock battle. He decided it wouldn't be a good idea to bother them now.   
  


Pulling out his down jacket and boots from the hall closet, John decided that what he needed was a breath of fresh air to clear all the cobwebs out of his head. Outside the sky was clear and very cold with only a few grey clouds that played hide and seek with the stars. His breath formed a white cloud around him as he stared up at the full moon. It was high up in the sky, a bright white disk surrounded by silver ring. Remembering a childhood fantasy he looked first for the shadows that formed the man in the moon, then he looked for the Chinese rabbit. Stuff of legends and fairy tales from opposite sides of the Earth, they were still there to be seen, the two of them at the same time, depending on how you looked at those shadows.   
  


His feet crunched in the snow as he walked away from the house. The house was nearly dark behind him. A few of the windows still glowed golden in the night and the light at the front porch still welcomed, but all was quiet now. And peaceful. John listened to the quiet around him. The winter silence was so different from the summer evenings of singing crickets and croaking frogs. There was a certain waiting hush all around him. A stray breeze whispered past him, running cold fingers through his hair before losing itself in the naked branches of the trees near the house. Among the clattering branches a single remaining leaf spun and fluttered, refusing to release its hold.   
  


The stars high up in the black sky glittered coldly like chips of ice among the clouds that gleamed white where touched by the moonlight. In the bright moonlight low hills and shallow valleys of snow rolled past him until they came up to the black shadows of the trees that lined the road leading up to the house. There they stopped arrested by the road's flat expanse, packed snow liquid silver in the cold light, only to take up their journey again beyond the dark trees on the other side.   
  


The sight conjured up a memory of his mother reading an old 19th century poem. In the modern eye it was old-fashioned and melodramatic, yet somehow the visions it conjured seemed to fit what John felt.   
  


_The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees._

_The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas._

_The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_

_And the highwayman came riding-, riding-_

_Riding_-   
  
  
  


He decided a drive was what he needed.   
  
  
  


Inside the large garage attached to the house were the family cars including John's new red Acura. "A red rice rocket," his father had called it, when John had first shown up at the front door with it. The Acura's alarm system beeped off at the touch of the control on John's keychain when he noticed a large shrouded form in the back near the rear doors. He was at first amazed to find the Black Beauty under the tarp, but then he remembered Lee mentioning something about wanting to get some work done on it over the long weekend.   
  


He walked slowly around the big black car. This was the first time he had a chance to fully study it. Now that it wasn't firing rockets at him or racing to save his father's and sister's lives he could finally get a close look at it. His first gut reaction was that the thing was poorly named. Sure, it was most definitely black, but beauty, now that was something of a question. Compared to his Acura, it was huge in a massive sort of way. Unlike his car's smooth teardrop shape, the black car was a blocky rectangle of straight lines, sharp angles and corners. While his wind tunnel designed car looked like it was going 110 mph standing still, this car was all aggression, even the protruding grille gave it the look of a belligerent fighter. John snorted wryly. Considering what laid under all that steel that wasn't far from the truth. If there was ever the perfect gangster's car, this was it.   
  


Gangster. That's the role his father had created for himself, or at least for his alter ego, the Green Hornet. _Tough old bird_, John thought of his father. This past escapade had certainly given him a new outlook on the type of man his father is. He had always admired his father's toughness, hell, sometimes the man seemed to be invulnerable, but it wasn't until now he knew how tough. Just like the tough old car in front of him. 

Yet, he knew there was a lot more to his father, the type of man who could still romance his wife of many years, who had carried his twin babies in each of his big arms, and taught each how to ride their first bikes and washed away tears and treated scraped knees. John smiled, the more he looked at the car the more he saw. He saw the way the curves leading to the grille were subtly sculpted and how the curves of the body were gently smoothed from front to rear into an eye-fooling perspective. There was a slender molded dart that ran from the rear to each rear wheel well, which themselves were covered so as not to break the smooth expanse of metal. Also above the brushed chrome of the grille was a dart of silver chrome that broke up the broad black hood. The black finish itself was unusual, not bright black lacquer, nor primer dull, but rather a soft burnished finish that gleamed like satin with a soft shine that swallowed much more light than it returned. _Yeah_, John decided, _beauty, there was a certain kind of quiet dignified beauty to the car_. He liked it.   
  


He ran his fingers along the side of the car until he reached the driver's door. Almost their own will his fingers found the well set into the depression that ran between the top of the side and the windows. Inside the well he found the door's release and gently pressed, not really expecting to hear the soft click. He climbed into the seat, just to see what it looked like from behind the steering wheel. He caressed the steering wheel in his hands. It was very wide, but slender, like a woman's wedding ring and the dash board as well as much of the interior trim was finished in expensive Claro walnut. The seats themselves were of butter soft leather.   
  


He looked appraisingly at his own car and the open garage door beyond. He knew what his own car could do, and wondered what could the Black Beauty do, besides blowing stuff up that is. He pressed the starter button and listened appreciatively as the big V8 roared to life and then settled down into a deep throated purr. _Very, very nice_. Years ago he had taken the family car out for a joy ride without his father's permission. It was nighttime then, as it was now and he had just gotten his driver's license. He was grounded for a week. As he guided the Black Beauty out onto the open road, he wondered what his father would do this time.   
  


The night beckoned.   
  
  
  
  
  


Epilogue   
  
  
  
  
  


The man in black watched the party goers from his high perch. New Years was always a good time for him. It was the time that the wealthy pulled out their pretty baubles to flash in front of their friends, and those they wished to make jealous. He sighed. There was a woman parading proudly around with a lovely arrangement of diamonds and sapphires that set his mouth to watering. His practiced eye valued the large central stone alone at a cool half million, American. It would be so easy. He shook his head. To business, alas. He had other game to hunt tonight. A challenge, true, one that would surely test his not inconsiderable skills. Yet he did have such a soft spot for glittering jewels. Paintings did not glimmer so brightly in the light, but they did bring a lovely price.   
  


His prey, Julius Archer, had left just a few moments ago with a lovely redhead, his latest conquest. Archer was a tall bespectacled man, who did not seem tall because of the bow to his back and thinness to the point of emaciation. The redhead contrasted with her escort. She had a Rubensque figure, big busted and generous hipped with a tiny waist in between, the kind of figure that encouraged a man to bury himself without fearing impaling himself on sharp bones.   
  


The man in black waited a few minutes. He already knew they were heading for the tenth floor suite. He wanted to give them a few minutes to settle in, get over the preliminaries and start the serious business of courtship. It was amazing the things a man would do to impress a prospective sex partner. When a rich man like his prey did not have the body to impress the ladies, he used his power to attract them instead. Of course the ladies are usually not impressed by how many companies he owns or the number of banks in which he has his money. No, the best aphrodisiacs are the pretty things like jewels and rare art treasures. The man in black knew that Archer had a secret vault when he kept his rarest treasures, especially those that had disappeared from art museums around the world. There he could look at them without the press of the unwashed masses and more importantly, impress the ladies. 

The man in black had been watching Archer a long time, always hoping that the next girl would be the one he would entrust with his secret art gallery. Most of the girls were usually easily impressed by the lesser things the man owned, and of course there was the wife. As long as the wife was around the man had to be careful where he took his ladies, ruling out the house and the gallery for their rendevous. Now she was out of the picture, away with a large part of the man's income as a consolation prize.   
  


The man in black's smile was hidden by the black hood he wore. If any girl would be the one, it would be the redhead. She struck him as being the type not easily impressed by the small things. He also knew from past newspaper reports that she had a distinctly larcenous soul and ambition to match Archer's. 

"My dear Shannon," the man in black heard through his listening device as Archer addressed the woman, "What's so interesting about my chess set?"   
  


She picked up a piece, a king cast in gold, from the white marble and black onyx chessboard. She shrugged as she studied the king. "I was just thinking about your plans."   
  


"Which plans?" he asked with unconvincing innocence.   
  


"You know the ones I mean. You already own one way or the other every media outlet in the country..."   
  


"And a few outside of the country as well," he added for her proudly.   
  


"So why do you want the Daily Sentinel?" she asked.   
  


"To make my collection complete, of course my dear."   
  


"You know as well as I, Reid will never sell it. There are other papers that would do just as good, such as the Clarion or the Daily Express."   
  


"My lovely, lovely Shannon, I never settle for second best. I always get the finest, such as the Daily Sentinel. Everything is for sale, you just have to offer the right price," the man said as he moved a silver king forward on the board. "What is your interest in the Daily Sentinel? I would think that after your late husband's involvement with Reid and his family, you would encourage an, ahem, hostile takeover of his paper."   
  


Shannon picked up another gold chess piece, a knight. "Reid's trouble, he always has been. He has powerful connections, connections that no one has ever been able to beat. Including my late, foolish husband."   
  


"You surely don't mean the Green Hornet. He's a mere thug."   
  


Shannon smiled at a memory, her tongue licking her red lips, "I've met the man. He's no thug. He's smart, tough and very tenacious. I've taken some time to study him and his connection with the Reids and the Daily Sentinel. You couldn't ever get either man to admit to the connection, but all I know is that whenever there's trouble with Reid or his newspaper, the Hornet gets involved."   
  


Archer took the golden chessmen from her hands, "Perhaps, my dear, we will separate them."   
  


She smiled wickedly at him, "Perhaps we will," she agreed. "Although it makes me wonder who is the knight and who is the king." She ran a finger along Archer's expensive coat jacket, the wicked smile broadening on her lips, "And perhaps we may even find out that they're the same man."   
  


"The same man," the man in black echoed. "How very interesting."   
  
  
  


  
  


Many miles away, another man was greeting the new year with screams of anger. "You told me it would work," he screamed at his doctor. "You told me you could save my arm. You told me that all you had to do was sew it back on."   
  


"My dear Mr. Hakenkrueze," the doctor said in his most soothing voice, "I never said such a thing. I told you from the beginning that it would be very doubtful that we could save your arm. After all it was many hours before we could retrieve it. Arms are not like lost teeth. You can't just pick them up, put them in a glass of ice water and expect them to grow back. An arm is a complicated collection of muscle, nerves and bone. We tried our very best but we were never able to achieve satisfactory circulation."   
  


Hakenkrueze stared at the useless grey limb and the end of his elbow. "Then cut it off."   
  


The doctor nodded at one of the male nurses who had come into the hospital room, "Prepare the operating room and notify the anaesthesiologist."   
  


"No," Hakenkrueze screamed, "I want to be awake. I want to feel every rip of the saw. I want to know what the Green Hornet will be feeling when I tear him limb from limb. I swear it will be more than an eye for an eye. I'm going to destroy him so thoroughly, make him hurt so bad that he'll beg for death." His voice lowered to a whisper, more frightening that his screams," And I won't grant it."   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**_Book Three of the Green Hornet saga is in the process of being written. It should be completed by the end of this year. I will be uploading other Green Hornet stories as I locate and clean up the drafts._**   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  



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